, 


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JIM 

THE  STORY  OF  A  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 


.  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 

MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


JIM 


THE    STORY    OF    A    BACKWOODS 
POLICE    DOG 


BY 
MAJOR  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 


ffotfc 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1919 

All  rights   rtur-vtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 

COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotypcd.    Published  Much,  19x9. 


XortoooO 

J.  i.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

JIM,  THE  STORY  OF  A  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG   .        .  7 

I.    How  WOOLLY  BILLY  CAME  TO  BRINE'S  RIP    .  9 

II.    THE  BOOK  AGENT  AND  THE  BUCKSKIN  BELT  .  32 

III.  THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE 65 

IV.  THE  TRAIL  or  THE  BEAR         ....  91 
V.    THE  FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS    .        .        .  115 

VI.    THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR       .       .135 

THE  EAGLE 157 

THE  MULE     .       . 179 

STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 199 


2132302 


JIM:     THE    STORY    OF    A 
BACKWOODS    POLICE    DOG 


JIM:    THE    STORY    OF    A 
BACKWOODS    POLICE    DOG 

I.     HOW  WOOLLY   BILLY   CAME  TO 
BRINE'S  RIP 

I 

JIM'S  mother  was  a  big  cross-bred  bitch, 
half  Newfoundland  and  half  bloodhound, 
belonging  to  Black  Saunders,  one  of  the  hands 
at  the  Brine's  Rip  Mills.  As  the  mills  were 
always  busy,  Saunders  was  always  busy,  and 
it  was  no  place  for  a  dog  to  be  around,  among 
the  screeching  saws,  the  thumping,  wet  logs, 
and  the  spurting  sawdust.  So  the  big  bitch, 
with  fiery  energy  thrilling  her  veins  and 
sinews  and  the  restraint  of  a  master's  hand 
seldom  exercised  upon  her,  practically  ran 
wild. 

Hunting  on  her  own  account  in  the  deep 
wilderness  which  surrounded  Brine's  Rip 
Settlement,  she  became  a  deadly  menace  to 
every  wild  thing  less  formidable  than  a  bear 


10      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

or  a  bull  moose,  till  at  last,  in  the  early  prime 
of  her  adventurous  career,  she  was  shot  by  an 
angry  game  warden  for  her  depredations 
among  the  deer  and  the  young  caribou. 

Jim's  father  was  a  splendid  and  pedigreed 
specimen  of  the  old  English  sheep-dog.  From 
a  litter  of  puppies  of  this  uncommon  parent- 
age, Tug  Blackstock,  the  Deputy  Sheriff  of 
Nipsiwaska  County,  chose  out  the  one  that 
seemed  to  him  the  likeliest,  paid  Black 
Saunders  a  sovereign  for  him,  and  named  him 
Jim.  To  Tug  Blackstock,  for  some  unfath- 
omed  reason,  the  name  of  "  Jim"  stood  for 
self-contained  efficiency. 

It  was  efficiency,  in  chief,  that  Tug  Black- 
stock,  as  Deputy  Sheriff,  was  after.  He  had 
been  reading,  in  a  stray  magazine  with  torn 
cover  and  much-thumbed  pages,  an  account  of 
the  wonderful  doings  of  the  trained  police 
dogs  of  Paris.  The  story  had  fired  his  imagi- 
nation and  excited  his  envy. 

There  was  a  lawless  element  in  some  of  the 
outlying  corners  of  Nipsiwaska  County,  with 
a  larger  element  of  yet  more  audacious  law- 
lessness beyond  the  county  line  from  which 
to  recruit.  Throughout  the  wide  and  mostly 
wilderness  expanse  of  Nipsiwaska  County  the 
responsibility  for  law  and  order  rested  almost 


WOOLLY  BILLY  11 

solely  upon  the  shoulders  of  Tug  Blackstock. 
His  chief,  the  Sheriff,  a  prosperous  shop- 
keeper who  owed  his  appointment  to  his 
political  pull,  knew  little  and  thought  less  of 
the  duties  of  his  office. 

As  soon  as  Jim  was  old  enough  to  have  an 
interest  beyond  his  breakfast  and  the  worry- 
ing of  his  rag  ball,  Tug  Blackstock  set  about 
his  training.  It  was  a  matter  that  could  not 
be  hurried.  Tug  had  much  work  to  do  and 
Jim,  as  behoved  a  growing  puppy,  had  a  deal 
of  play  to  get  through  in  the  course  of  each 
twenty-four  hours.  Then  so  hard  was  the 
learning,  so  easy,  alas!  the  forgetting.  Tug 
Blackstock  was  kind  to  all  creatures  but  timber 
thieves  and  other  evil-doers  of  like  kidney.  He 
was  patient,  with  the  long  patience  of  the 
forest.  But  he  had  a  will  like  the  granite  of 
old  Bald  Face. 

Jim  was  quick  of  wit,  willing  to  learn, 
intent  to  please  his  master.  But  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  concentrate.  It  was  hard  to  keep 
his  mind  off  cats,  and  squirrels,  the  worrying 
of  old  boots,  and  other  doggish  frivolities. 
Hence,  at  times,  some  painful  misunder- 
standings between  teacher  and  pupil.  In  the 
main,  however,  the  education  of  Jim  pro- 
gressed to  a  marvel. 


12      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

They  were  a  pair,  indeed,  to  strike  the  most 
stolid  imagination,  let  alone  the  sensitive, 
brooding,  watchful  imagination  of  the  back- 
woods. Tug  Blackstock  was  a  tall,  spare 
figure  of  a  man,  narrow  of  hip,  deep  of  chest, 
with  something  of  a  stoop  to  his  mighty 
shoulders,  and  his  head  thrust  forward  as  if 
in  ceaseless  scrutiny  of  the  unseen.  His  hair, 
worn  somewhat  short  and  pushed  straight 
back,  was  faintly  grizzled.  His  face,  tanned 
and  lean,  was  markedly  wide  at  the  eyes,  with 
a  big,  well-modelled  nose,  a  long,  obstinate 
jaw,  and  a  wide  mouth  whimsically  uptwisted 
at  one  corner. 

Except  on  the  trail  —  and  even  then  he 
usually  carried  a  razor  in  his  pack  —  he  was 
always  clean-shaven,  just  because  he  didn't 
like  the  curl  of  his  beard.  His  jacket,  shirt, 
and  trousers  were  of  browny-grey  homespun, 
of  much  the  same  hue  as  his  soft  slouch  hat, 
all  as  inconspicuous  as  possible.  But  at  his 
throat,  loosely  knotted  under  his  wide-rolling 
shirt  collar,  he  wore  usually  an  ample  silk 
handkerchief  of  vivid  green  spattered  with  big 
yellow  spots,  like  dandelions  in  a  young  June 
meadow. 

As  for  Jim,  at  first  glance  he  might  almost 
have  been  taken  for  a  slim,  young  black  bear 


WOOLLY  BILLY  13 

rather  than  a  dog.  The  shaggy  coat  be- 
queathed to  him  by  his  sheep-dog  sire  gave 
to  his  legs  and  to  his  hindquarters  an  appear- 
ance of  massiveness  that  was  almost  clumsy. 
But  under  this  dense  black  fleece  his  lines  were 
fine  and  clean-drawn  as  a  bull-terrier's. 

The  hair  about  his  eyes  grew  so  long  and 
thick  that,  if  left  to  itself,  it  would  have 
seriously  interfered  with  his  vision.  This  his 
master  could  not  think  of  permitting,  so  the 
riotous  hair  was  trimmed  down  severely,  till 
Jim's  large,  sagacious  eyes  gazed  out  unim- 
peded from  ferocious,  brush-like  rims  of  stubby 
fur  about  half  an  inch  in  length. 

II 

For  some  ten  miles  above  the  long,  white, 
furrowed  face  of  Brine's  Rip,  where  Blue 
Forks  Brook  flows  in,  the  main  stream  of  the 
Ottanoonsis  is  a  succession  of  mad  rapids  and 
toothed  ledges  and  treacherous,  channel- 
splitting  shoals.  These  ten  miles  are  a  trial 
of  nerve  and  water-craft  for  the  best  canoeists 
on  the  river.  In  the  spring,  when  the  river 
was  in  freshet  and  the  freed  logs  were  racing, 
battering,  and  jamming,  the  whole  reach  was 
such  a  death-trap  for  the  stream-drivers  that 


14      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

it  had  come  to  be  known  as  Dead  Man's  Run. 

Now,  in  high  summer,  when  the  stream  was 
shrunken  in  its  channel  and  the  sunshine  lay 
golden  over  the  roaring,  creamy  chutes  and 
the  dancing  shallows,  the  place  looked  less 
perilous.  But  it  was  full  of  snares  and  hid- 
den teeth.  It  was  no  place  for  the  canoeist, 
however  expert  with  pole  and  paddle,  unless 
he  knew  how  to  read  the  water  unerringly  for 
many  yards  ahead.  It  is  this  reading  of  the 
water,  this  instantaneous  solving  of  the  hiero- 
glyphics of  foam  and  surge  and  swirl  and 
glassy  lunge,  that  makes  the  skilled  runner  of 
the  rapids. 

A  light  birch-bark  canoe,  with  a  man  in  the 
stern  and  a  small  child  in  the  bow,  was  ap- 
proaching the  head  of  the  rapids,  which  were 
hidden  from  the  paddler's  view  by  a  high, 
densely-wooded  bend  of  the  shore.  The  canoe 
leapt  forward  swiftly  on  the  smooth,  quiet  cur- 
rent, under  the  strong  drive  of  the  paddle. 

The  paddler  was  a  tall,  big-limbed  man,  with 
fair  hair  fringing  out  under  his  tweed  cap,  and 
a  face  burnt  red  rather  than  tanned  by  the 
weather.  He  was  dressed  roughly  but  well, 
and  not  as  a  woodsman,  and  he  had  a  subtle 
air  of  being  foreign  to  the  backwoods.  He 
knew  how  to  handle  his  paddle,  however,  the 


WOOLLY  BILLY  15 

prow  of  his  craft  keeping  true  though  his 
strokes  were  slow  and  powerful. 

The  child  who  sat  facing  him  on  a  cushion 
in  the  bow  was  a  little  boy  of  four  or  five 
years,  in  a  short  scarlet  jacket  and  blue 
knickers.  His  fat,  bare  legs  were  covered 
with  fly-bites  and  scratches,  his  baby  face  of 
the  tenderest  cream  and  pink,  his  round,  inter- 
ested eyes  as  blue  as  periwinkle  blossoms. 
But  the  most  conspicuous  thing  about  him  was 
his  hair.  He  was  bareheaded  —  his  little  cap 
lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  among  the 
luggage  —  and  the  hair,  as  white  as  tow,  stood 
out  like  a  fleece  all  over  his  head,  enmeshing 
the  sunlight  in  its  silken  tangle. 

When  the  canoe  shot  round  the  bend,  the 
roar  of  the  rapids  smote  suddenly  upon  the 
voyagers'  ears.  The  child  turned  his  bright 
head  inquiringly,  but  from  his  low  place  could 
see  nothing  to  explain  the  noise.  His  father, 
however,  sitting  up  on  the  hinder  bar  of  the 
canoe,  could  see  a  menacing  white  line  of  toss- 
ing crests,  aflash  in  the  sunlight,  stretching 
from  shore  to  shore.  Backing  water  vigor- 
ously to  check  his  headway,  he  stood  up  to  get 
a  better  view  and  choose  his  way  through  the 
surge. 

The  stranger  was  master  of  his  paddle,  but 


14      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

it  had  come  to  be  known  as  Dead  Man's  Run. 

Now,  in  high  summer,  when  the  stream  was 
shrunken  in  its  channel  and  the  sunshine  lay 
golden  over  the  roaring,  creamy  chutes  and 
the  dancing  shallows,  the  place  looked  less 
perilous.  But  it  was  full  of  snares  and  hid- 
den teeth.  It  was  no  place  for  the  canoeist, 
however  expert  with  pole  and  paddle,  unless 
he  knew  how  to  read  the  water  unerringly  for 
many  yards  ahead.  It  is  this  reading  of  the 
water,  this  instantaneous  solving  of  the  hiero- 
glyphics of  foam  and  surge  and  swirl  and 
glassy  lunge,  that  makes  the  skilled  runner  of 
the  rapids. 

A  light  birch-bark  canoe,  with  a  man  in  the 
stern  and  a  small  child  in  the  bow,  was  ap- 
proaching the  head  of  the  rapids,  which  were 
hidden  from  the  paddler's  view  by  a  high, 
densely-wooded  bend  of  the  shore.  The  canoe 
leapt  forward  swiftly  on  the  smooth,  quiet  cur- 
rent, under  the  strong  drive  of  the  paddle. 

The  paddler  was  a  tall,  big-limbed  man,  with 
fair  hair  fringing  out  under  his  tweed  cap,  and 
a  face  burnt  red  rather  than  tanned  by  the 
weather.  He  was  dressed  roughly  but  well, 
and  not  as  a  woodsman,  and  he  had  a  subtle 
air  of  being  foreign  to  the  backwoods.  He 
knew  how  to  handle  his  paddle,  however,  the 


WOOLLY  BILLY  15 

prow  of  his  craft  keeping  true  though  his 
strokes  were  slow  and  powerful. 

The  child  who  sat  facing  him  on  a  cushion 
in  the  bow  was  a  little  boy  of  four  or  five 
years,  in  a  short  scarlet  jacket  and  blue 
knickers.  His  fat,  bare  legs  were  covered 
with  fly-bites  and  scratches,  his  baby  face  of 
the  tenderest  cream  and  pink,  his  round,  inter- 
ested eyes  as  blue  as  periwinkle  blossoms. 
But  the  most  conspicuous  thing  about  him  was 
his  hair.  He  was  bareheaded  —  his  little  cap 
lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  among  the 
luggage  —  and  the  hair,  as  white  as  tow,  stood 
out  like  a  fleece  all  over  his  head,  enmeshing 
the  sunlight  in  its  silken  tangle. 

When  the  canoe  shot  round  the  bend,  the 
roar  of  the  rapids  smote  suddenly  upon  the 
voyagers'  ears.  The  child  turned  his  bright 
head  inquiringly,  but  from  his  low  place  could 
see  nothing  to  explain  the  noise.  His  father, 
however,  sitting  up  on  the  hinder  bar  of  the 
canoe,  could  see  a  menacing  white  line  of  toss- 
ing crests,  aflash  in  the  sunlight,  stretching 
from  shore  to  shore.  Backing  water  vigor- 
ously to  check  his  headway,  he  stood  up  to  get 
a  better  view  and  choose  his  way  through  the 
surge. 

The  stranger  was  master  of  his  paddle,  but 


18      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

skill  to  handle  one.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  the 
wild  current  and  could  only  race  on,  trusting 
to  master  each  new  emergency  as  it  should  hurl 
itself  upon  him. 

Presently  the  little  one  took  alarm  again  at 
his  father's  stern-set  mouth  and  preoccupied 
eyes.  The  man  had  just  time  to  shout  once 
more,  "  Don't  be  afraid,  son.  Dad'll  take  care 
of  you,"  when  the  canoe  was  once  more  in  a 
yelling  chaos  of  chutes  and  ledges.  And  now 
there  was  no  respite.  Unable  to  read  the 
signs  of  the  water,  he  was  full  upon  each  new 
peril  before  he  recognized  it,  and  only  his  great 
muscular  strength  and  instant  decision  saved 
them. 

Again  and  again  they  barely  by  a  hair's- 
breadth,  slipped  through  the  jaws  of  death, 
and  it  seemed  to  the  man  that  the  gnashing 
ledges  raved  and  yelled  behind  him  at  each 
miracle  of  escape.  Then  hissing  wave-crests 
cut  themselves  off  and  leapt  over  the  racing 
gunwale,  till  he  feared  the  canoe  would  be 
swamped.  Once  they  scraped  so  savagely 
that  he  thought  the  bottom  was  surely  ripped 
from  the  canoe.  But  still  he  won  onward, 
mile  after  roaring  mile,  his  will  fighting  dog- 
gedly to  keep  his  eyesight  from  growing  hope- 
lessly confused  with  the  hellish,  sliding  dazzle 
and  riot  of  waters. 


WOOLLY  BILLY  19 

But  at  last  the  fiend  of  the  flood,  having 
played  with  its  prey  long  enough,  laid  bare  its 
claws  and  struck.  The  bow  of  the  canoe,  in 
swerving  from  one  foam-curtained  rock, 
grounded  heavily  upon  another.  In  an 
instant  the  little  craft  was  swung  broadside 
on,  and  hung  there.  The  waves  piled  upon 
her  in  a  yelling  pack.  She  was  smothered 
down,  and  rolled  over  helplessly. 

As  they  shot  out  into  the  torrent  the  man, 
with  a  terrible  cry,  sprang  toward  the  bow, 
striving  to  reach  his  son.  He  succeeded  in 
catching  the  little  one,  with  one  hand,  by  the 
back  of  the  scarlet  jacket.  The  next  moment 
he  went  under  and  the  jacket  came  off  over  the 
child's  head.  A  whimsical  cross-current 
dragged  the  little  boy  twenty  feet  off  to  one 
side,  and  shot  him  into  a  shallow  side  channel. 

When  the  man  came  to  the  surface  again 
his  eyes  were  shut,  his  face  stark  white,  his 
legs  and  arms  flung  about  aimlessly  as  weeds ; 
but  fast  in  his  unconscious  grip  he  held  the 
little  red  jacket.  The  canoe,  its  side  stove  in, 
and  full  of  water,  was  hurrying  off  down  the 
rapid  amid  a  fleet  of  paddles,  cushions,  blan- 
kets, boxes,  and  bundles.  The  body  of  the 
man,  heavy  and  inert  and  sprawling,  followed 
more  slowly.  The  waves  rolled  it  over  and 


20      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

trampled  it  down,  shouldered  it  up  again,  and 
snatched  it  away  viciously  whenever  it  showed 
an  inclination  to  hang  itself  up  on  some  pro- 
jecting ledge.  It  was  long  since  they  had  had 
such  a  victim  on  whom  to  glut  their  rancour. 

The  child,  meanwhile,  after  being  rolled 
through  the  laughing  shallows  of  the  side 
channel  and  playfully  buffeted  into  a  half- 
drowned  unconsciousness,  was  stranded  on  a 
sand  spit  some  eight  or  ten  yards  from  the 
right-hand  shore.  There  he  lay,  half  in  the 
water,  half  out  of  it,  the  silken  white  floss  of 
his  hair  all  plastered  down  to  his  head,  the 
rippled  current  tugging  at  his  scratched  and 
bitten  legs. 

The  unclouded  sun  shone  down  warmly 
upon  his  face,  slowly  bringing  back  the  rose 
to  his  baby  lips,  and  a  small,  paper-blue  but- 
terfly hovered  over  his  head  for  a  few  seconds, 
as  if  puzzled  to  make  out  what  kind  of  being 
he  was. 

The  sand  spit  which  had  given  the  helpless 
little  one  refuge  was  close  to  the  shore,  but 
separated  from  it  by  a  deep  and  turbulent  cur- 
rent. A  few  minutes  after  the  blue  butterfly 
had  flickered  away  across  the  foam,  a  large 
black  bear  came  noiselessly  forth  from  the  fir 
woods  and  down  to  the  water's  edge.  He 


WOOLLY  BILLY  21 

gazed  searchingly  up  and  down  the  river  to 
see  if  there  were  any  other  human  creatures 
in  sight,  then  stretched  his  savage  black  muzzle 
out  over  the  water  toward  the  sand  spit,  eyeing 
and  sniffing  at  the  little  unconscious  figure 
there  in  the  sun.  He  could  not  make  out 
whether  it  was  dead  or  only  asleep.  In  either 
case  he  wanted  it.  He  stepped  into  the  foam- 
ing edge  of  the  sluice,  and  stood  there  whim- 
pering with  disappointed  appetite,  daunted  by 
the  snaky  vehemence  of  the  current. 

Presently,  as  the  warmth  of  the  flooding 
sun  crept  into  his  veins,  the  child  stirred,  and 
opened  his  blue  eyes.  He  sat  up,  noticed  he 
was  sitting  in  the  water,  crawled  to  a  dry  spot, 
and  snuggled  down  into  the  hot  sand.  For 
the  moment  he  was  too  dazed  to  realize  where 
he  was.  Then,  as  the  life  pulsed  back  into 
his  veins,  he  remembered  how  his  father's  hand 
had  caught  him  by  the  jacket  just  as  he  went 
plunging  into  the  awful  waves.  Now,  the 
jacket  was  gone.  His  father  was  gone,  too. 

"  Daddy !  Daddee-ee !  "  he  wailed.  And 
at  the  sound  of  that  wailing  cry,  so  unmis- 
takably the  cry  of  a  youngling  for  its  parent, 
the  bear  drew  back  discreetly  behind  a  bush, 
and  glanced  uneasily  up  and  down  the  stream 
to  see  if  the  parent  would  come  in  answer  to 
the  appeal.  He  had  a  wholesome  respect  for 


22      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

the  grown-up  man  creature  of  either  sex,  and 
was  ready  to  retire  on  the  approach  of  one. 

But  no  one  came.  The  child  began  to  sob 
softly,  in  a  lonesome,  frightened,  suppressed 
way.  In  a  minute  or  two,  however,  he  stopped 
this,  and  rose  to  his  feet,  and  began  repeating 
over  and  over  the  shrill  wail  of  "  Daddy,  Dad- 
dee-ee,  Daddee-ee ! "  At  the  same  time  he 
peered  about  him  in  every  direction,  almost 
hopefully,  as  if  he  thought  his  father  must  be 
hiding  somewhere  near,  to  jump  out  presently 
for  a  game  of  bo-peep  with  him. 

His  baby  eyes  were  keen.  They  did  not  find 
his  father,  but  they  found  the  bear,  its  great 
black  head  staring  at  him  from  behind  a  bush. 

His  cries  stopped  on  the  instant,  in  the 
middle  of  a  syllable,  frozen  in  his  throat  with 
terror.  He  cowered  down  again  upon  the 
sand,  and  stared,  speechless,  at  the  awful 
apparition.  The  bear,  realizing  that  the  little 
one's  cries  had  brought  no  succour,  came  out 
from  its  hiding  confidently,  and  down  to  the 
shore,  and  straight  out  into  the  water  till  the 
current  began  to  drag  too  savagely  at  its  legs. 
Here  it  stopped,  grumbling  and  baffled. 

The  little  one,  unable  any  longer  to  endure 
the  dreadful  sight,  backed  to  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  sand,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 


WOOLLY  BILLY  23 

and  fell  to  whimpering  piteously,  an  unceasing, 
hopeless,  monotonous  little  cry,  as  vague  and 
inarticulate  as  the  wind. 

The  bear,  convinced  at  length  that  the  sluice 
just  here  was  too  strong  for  him  to  cross,  drew 
back  to  the  shore  reluctantly.  It  moved  slowly 
up-stream  some  forty  or  fifty  yards,  looking 
for  a  feasible  crossing.  Disappointed  in  this 
direction,  it  then  explored  the  water's  edge  for 
a  little  distance  down-stream,  but  with  a  like 
result.  But  it  would  not  give  up.  Up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  it  continued  to  patrol  the 
shore  with  hungry  obstinacy.  And  the  piteous 
whimpering  of  the  little  figure  that  cowered, 
with  hidden  face  upon  the  sand  spit,  gradually 
died  away.  That  white  fleece  of  silken  locks, 
dried  in  the  sun  and  blown  by  the  warm  breeze, 
stood  out  once  more  in  its  radiance  on  the 
lonely  little  slumbering  head. 

Ill 

Tug  Blackstock  sat  on  a  log,  smoking  and 
musing,  on  the  shore  of  that  wide,  eddying 
pool,  full  of  slow  swirls  and  spent  foam  clus- 
ters, in  which  the  tumbling  riot  of  Brine's  Rip 
came  to  a  rest.  From  the  mills  behind  him 
screeched  the  untiring  saws.  Outstretched  at 


24      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

his  feet  lay  Jim,  indolently  snapping  at  flies. 
The  men  of  the  village  were  busy  in  the  mills, 
the  women  in  their  cottages,  the  children  in 
their  schools;  and  the  stretch  of  rough  shore 
gave  Tug  Blackstock  the  solitude  which  he 
loved. 

Down  through  the  last  race  of  the  rapids 
came  a  canoe  paddle,  and  began  revolving 
slowly  in  the  eddies.  Blackstock  pointed  it 
out  to  Jim,  and  sent  him  in  after  it.  The  dog 
swam  for  it  gaily,  grabbed  it  by  the  top  so 
that  it  could  trail  at  his  side,  and  brought  it 
to  his  master's  feet.  It  was  a  good  paddle,  of 
clean  bird's-eye  maple  and  Melicite  pattern, 
and  Tug  Blackstock  wondered  who  could  have 
been  so  careless  as  to  lose  it.  Carelessness  is 
a  vice  regarded  with  small  leniency  in  the 
backwoods. 

A  few  minutes  later  down  the  rapids  came 
wallowing  a  water-logged  birch-canoe.  The 
other  things  which  had  started  out  with  it,  the 
cushions  and  blankets  and  bundles,  had  got 
themselves  tangled  in  the  rocks  and  left  behind. 

At  sight  of  the  wrecked  canoe,  Tug  Black- 
stock  rose  to  his  feet.  He  began  to  suspect 
another  of  the  tragedies  of  Dead  Man's  Run. 
But  what  river-man  would  come  to  grief  in 
the  Run  at  this  stage  of  the  water?  Black- 


WOOLLY  BILLY  25 

stock  turned  to  an  old  dug-out  which  lay  hauled 
up  on  the  shore,  ran  it  down  into  the  water  and 
paddled  out  to  salvage  the  wrecked  canoe.  He 
towed  it  to  shore,  emptied  it,  and  scrutinized 
it.  He  thought  he  knew  every  canoe  on  the 
river,  but  this  one  was  a  stranger  to  him.  It 
had  evidently  been  brought  across  the  Portage 
from  the  east  coast.  Then  he  found,  burnt 
into  the  inside  of  the  gunwale  near  the  bow, 
the  letters  J.  C.  M.  W. 

"The  Englishman,"  he  muttered.  "He's 
let  the  canoe  git  away  from  him  at  the  head 
of  the  Run,  likely,  when  he's  gone  ashore. 
He'd  never  have  tried  to  shoot  the  Run  alone, 
an'  him  with  no  experience  of  rapids." 

But  he  was  uneasy.  He  decided  that  he 
would  get  his  own  canoe  and  pole  up  through 
the  rapids,  just  to  satisfy  himself. 

Tug  Blackstock's  canoe,  a  strong  and  swift 
"  Fredericton  "  of  polished  canvas,  built  on 
the  lines  of  a  racing  birch,  was  kept  under 
cover  in  his  wood  shed  at  the  end  of  the  village 
street.  He  shouldered  it,  carrying  it  over  his 
head  with  the  mid  bar  across  his  shoulders, 
and  bore  it  down  to  the  water's  edge.  Then 
he  went  back  and  fetched  his  two  canoe  poles 
and  his  paddles. 

Waving  Jim  into  the  bow,  he  was  just  about 


26      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

to  push  off  when  his  narrowed  eyes  caught 
sight  of  something  else  rolling  and  threshing 
helplessly  down  the  rapid.  Only  too  well  he 
saw  what  it  was.  His  face  pale  with  concern, 
he  thrust  the  canoe  violently  up  into  the  tail 
of  the  rapid,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  blindly 
sprawling  shape  before  it  could  sink  to  the 
depths  of  the  pool.  Tenderly  he  lifted  it  out 
upon  the  shore.  It  was  battered  almost  out 
of  recognition,  but  he  knew  it. 

"  Poor  devil !  Poor  devil !  "  he  muttered 
sorrowfully.  "  He  was  a  man  all  right,  but 
he  didn't  understand  rapids  for  shucks ! " 

Then  he  noticed  that  in  the  dead  man's  right 
hand  was  clutched  a  tiny  child's  jacket.  He 
understood  —  he  saw  the  whole  scene,  and  he 
swore  compassionately  under  his  breath,  as  he 
unloosed  the  rigid  fingers.  Alive  or  dead,  the 
little  one  must  be  found  at  once. 

He  called  Jim  sharply,  and  showed  him  the 
soaked  red  jacket.  Jim  sniffed  at  it,  but  the 
wearer's  scent  was  long  ago  soaked  out  of  it. 
He  looked  it  over,  and  pawed  it,  wagging  his 
tail  doubtfully.  He  could  see  it  was  a  small 
child's  jacket,  but  what  was  he  expected  to 
do  with  it? 

After  a  few  moments,  Tug  Blackstock 
patted  the  jacket  vigorously,  and  then  waved 
his  arm  up-stream. 


WOOLLY  BILLY  27 

"  Go,  find  him,  Jim !  "  he  ordered.  Jim, 
hanging  upon  each  word  and  gesture,  compre- 
hended instantly.  He  was  to  find  the  owner 
of  the  little  jacket  —  a  child  —  somewhere  up 
the  river.  With  a  series  of  eager  yelps  — 
which  meant  that  he  would  do  all  that  living 
dog  could  do  —  he  started  up  the  shore,  on 
the  full  run. 

By  this  time  the  mill  whistles  had  blown, 
the  screaming  of  the  saws  had  stopped,  the 
men,  powdered  with  yellow  sawdust,  were 
streaming  out  from  the  wide  doors.  They 
flocked  down  to  the  water. 

In  hurried  words  Blackstock  explained  the 
situation.  Then  he  stepped  once  more  into 
his  canoe,  snatched  his  long,  steel-shod  pole, 
and  thrust  his  prow  up  into  the  wild  current, 
leaving  the  dead  man  to  the  care  of  the  coroner 
and  the  village  authorities.  Before  he  had 
battled  his  way  more  than  a  few  hundred 
yards  upwards  through  the  raging  smother, 
two  more  canoes,  with  expert  polers  standing 
poised  in  them  like  statues,  had  pushed  out  to 
follow  him  in  his  search. 

The  rest  of  the  crowd  picked  up  the  body 
and  bore  it  away  reverently  to  the  court-room, 
with  sympathetic  women  weeping  beside  it. 

Racing  along  the  open  edge  of  the  river 


28      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

where  it  was  possible,  tearing  fiercely  through 
thicket  and  underbrush  where  rapids  or  rocks 
made  the  river's  edge  impassable,  the  great 
black  dog  panted  onwards  with  the  sweat  drip- 
ping from  jaws  and  tongue.  Whenever  he 
was  forced  away  from  the  river,  he  would 
return  to  it  at  every  fifty  yards  or  so,  and 
scan  each  rock,  shoal  or  sand  spit  with  keen, 
sagacious  eyes.  He  had  been  told  to  search 
the  river  —  that  was  the  plain  interpretation 
of  the  wet  jacket  and  of  Tug  Blackstock's 
gesture  —  so  he  wasted  no  time  upon  the  woods 
and  the  undergrowth. 

At  last  he  caught  sight  of  the  little  fluffy- 
headed  figure  huddled  upon  the  sand  spit  far 
across  the  river.  He  stopped,  stared  intently, 
and  then  burst  into  loud,  ecstatic  barkings  as 
an  announcement  that  his  search  had  been  suc- 
cessful. But  the  noise  did  not  carry  across 
the  tumult  of  the  ledge,  and  the  little  one  slept 
on,  exhausted  by  his  terror  and  his  grief. 

It  was  not  only  the  sleeping  child  that  Jim 
saw.  He  saw  the  bear,  and  his  barking  broke 
into  shrill  yelps  of  alarm  and  appeal.  He 
could  not  see  that  the  sluice  between  the  sand 
spit  and  the  bank  was  an  effective  barrier,  and 
he  was  frantic  with  anxiety  lest  the  bear  should 
attack  the  little  one  before  he  could  come  to 
the  rescue. 


WOOLLY  BILLY  29 

His  experienced  eye  told  him  in  a  moment 
that  the  river  was  impassable  for  him  at  this 
point.  He  dashed  on  up-stream  for  another 
couple  of  hundred  yards,  and  then,  where  a 
breadth  of  comparatively  slack  water  beneath 
a  long  ledge  extended  more  than  half-way 
across,  he  plunged  in,  undaunted  by  the  clam- 
our arid  the  jumping,  boiling  foam. 

Swimming  mightily,  he  gained  a  point 
directly  above  the  sand  spit.  Then,  fighting 
every  inch  of  the  way  to  get  across  the  terrific 
draft  of  the  main  current,  he  was  swept  down- 
ward at  a  tremendous  speed.  But  he  had  car- 
ried out  his  plan.  He  gained  the  shallow  side 
channel,  splashed  down  it,  and  darted  up  the 
sand  spit  with  a  menacing  growl  at  the  bear 
across  the  sluice. 

At  the  sound  of  that  harsh  growl  close  to 
his  ears  the  little  one  woke  up  and  raised  his 
head.  Seeing  Jim,  big  and  black  and  drip- 
ping, he  thought  it  was  the  bear.  With  a 
piercing  scream  he  once  more  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands,  rigid  with  horror.  Puzzled  at  this 
reception,  Jim  fell  to  licking  his  hands  and  his 
ears  extravagantly,  and  whining  and  thrust- 
ing a  coaxing  wet  nose  under  his  arms. 

At  last  the  little  fellow  began  to  realize  that 
these  were  not  the  actions  of  a  foe.  Timidly 


30      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

he  lowered  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  looked 
around.  Why,  there  was  the  bear,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water,  tremendous  and  ter- 
rible, but  just  where  he  had  been  this  ever  so 
long.  This  creature  that  was  making  such  a 
fuss  over  him  was  plainly  a  dog  —  a  kind,  good 
dog,  who  was  fond  of  little  boys. 

With  a  sigh  of  inexpressible  relief  his  terror 
slipped  from  him.  He  flung  his  arms  about 
Jim's  shaggy  neck  and  buried  his  face  in  the 
wet  fur.  And  Jim,  his  heart  swelling  with 
pride,  stood  up  and  barked  furiously  across  at 
the  bear. 

Tug  Blackstock,  standing  in  the  stern  of  his 
canoe,  plied  his  pole  with  renewed  effort. 
Reaching  the  spit  he  strode  forward,  snatched 
the  child  up  in  his  arms,  and  passed  his  great 
hand  tenderly  through  that  wonderful  shock 
of  whitey-gold  silken  curls.  His  eyes  were 
moist,  but  his  voice  was  hearty  and  gay,  as  if 
this  meeting  were  the  most  ordinary  thing  in 
the  world. 

"  Hullo,  Woolly  Billy!  "  he  cried.  "  What 
are  you  doin'  here  ?  " 

"  Daddy  left  me  here,"  answered  the  child, 
his  lip  beginning  to  quiver.  "  Where's  he 
gone  to  ?  " 

"Oh,"   replied   Tug   Blackstock  hurriedly, 


WOOLLY  BILLY  31 

"  yer  dad  was  called  away  rather  sudden,  an' 
he  sent  me  an'  Jim,  here,  to  look  after  you  till 
he  gits  back.  An'  we'll  do  it,  too,  Woolly 
Billy;  don't  you  fret." 

"  My  name's  George  Harold  Manners 
Watson,"  explained  the  child  politely. 

"  But  we'll  just  call  you  Woolly  Billy  for 
short,"  said  Tug  Blackstock. 


II.  THE  BOOK  AGENT  AND  THE 
BUCKSKIN  BELT 


A  BIG-FRAMED,  jaunty  man  with  black 
side-whiskers,  a  long  black  frock  coat, 
and  a  square,  flat  case  of  shiny  black  leather 
strapped  upon  his  back,  stepped  into  the  Cor- 
ner Store  at  Brine's  Rip  Mills. 

He  said :  "  Hullo,  boys !  Hot  day !  "  in  a  big 
voice  that  was  intentionally  hearty,  ran  his 
bulging  eyes  appraisingly  over  every  one  pres- 
ent, then  took  off  his  wide-brimmed  felt  hat 
and  mopped  his  glistening  forehead  with  a  big 
red  and  white  handkerchief.  Receiving  a 
more  or  less  hospitable  chorus  of  grunts  and 
"  hullos  "  in  response,  he  seated  himself  on  a 
keg  of  nails,  removed  the  leather  case  from 
his  back,  and  asked  for  ginger  beer,  which  he 
drank  noisily  from  the  bottle. 

"  Name  of  Byles,"  said  he  at  length,  intro- 
ducing himself  with  a  sweeping  nod.  "  Hot 
tramp  in  from  Cribb's  Ridge.  Thirsty,  you 
bet.  Never  drink  nothing  stronger'n  ginger 
pop  or  soft  cider.  Have  a  round  o*  pop  on  me, 

32 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  33 

boys.  Al  pop  this  o'  yours,  mister.  A  dozen 
more  bottles,  please,  for  these  gentlemen." 

He  looked  around  the  circle  with  an  air  at 
once  assured  and  persuasive.  And  the  taci- 
turn woodsmen,  not  wholly  at  ease  under  such 
sudden  cordiality  from  a  stranger,  but  too 
polite  to  rebuff  him,  muttered  "  Thank  ye, 
kindly,"  or  "  Here's  how,"  as  they  threw  back 
their  heads  and  poured  the  weak  stuff  down 
their  gaunt  and  hairy  throats. 

It  was  a  slack  time  at  Brine's  Rip,  the  mills 
having  shut  down  that  morning  because  the 
river  was  so  low  that  there  were  no  more  logs 
running.  The  shrieking  saws  being  silent  for 
a  little,  there  was  nothing  for  the  mill  hands 
to  do  but  loaf  and  smoke.  The  hot  air  was 
heavily  scented  with  the  smell  of  fresh  sawdust 
mixed  with  the  strong  honey-perfume  of  the 
flowering  buckwheat  fields  beyond  the  village. 
The  buzzing  of  flies  in  the  windows  of  the  store 
was  like  a  fine  arabesque  of  sound  against  the 
ceaseless,  muffled  thunder  of  the  rapids. 

The  dozen  men  gathered  here  at  Zeb  Smith's 
store  —  which  was,  in  effect,  the  village  club 
—  found  it  hard  to  rouse  themselves  to  a  con- 
versational effort  in  any  way  worthy  the  ad- 
vances of  the  confident  stranger.  They  all 
smoked  a  little  harder  than  usual,  and  looked 


34      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

on  with  courteous  but  noncommittal  interest 
while  he  proceeded  to  unstrap  his  shiny  black 
leather  case. 

In  his  stiff  and  sombre  garb,  so  unsuited  to 
the  backwoods  trails,  the  stranger  had  much 
the  look  of  one  of  those  itinerant  preachers 
who  sometimes  busy  themselves  with  the  cure 
of  souls  in  the  remoter  backwoods  settlements. 
But  his  eye  and  his  address  were  rather  those 
of  a  shrewd  and  pushing  commercial  traveller. 

Tug  Blackstock,  the  Deputy  Sheriff  of  Nip- 
siwaska  County,  felt  a  vague  antagonism 
toward  him,  chiefly  on  the  ground  that  his 
speech  and  bearing  did  not  seem  to  consort 
with  his  habiliments.  He  rather  liked  a  man 
to  look  what  he  was  or  be  what  he  looked,  and 
he  did  not  like  black  side  whiskers  and  long 
hair.  This  antagonism,  however,  he  felt  to 
be  unreasonable.  The  man  had  evidently  had 
a  long  and  tiring  tramp,  and  was  entitled  to  a 
somewhat  friendlier  reception  than  he  was 
getting. 

Swinging  his  long  legs  against  the  counter, 
on  which  he  sat  between  a  pile  of  printed 
calicoes  and  a  box  of  bright  pink  fancy  soap, 
Tug  Blackstock  reached  behind  him  and  pos- 
sessed himself  of  a  box  of  long,  black  cigars. 
Having  selected  one  critically  for  himself,  he 
proffered  the  box  to  the  stranger. 


35 

"  Have  a  weed  ?  "  said  he  cordially.  "  They 
ain't  half  bad." 

But  the  stranger  waved  the  box  aside  with 
an  air  at  once  grand  and  gracious. 

"  I  never  touch  the  weed,  thank  you  kindly 
just  the  same,"  said  he.  "  But  I've  nothing 
agin  it.  It  goes  agin  my  system,  that's  all. 
If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'll  take  a  bite  o* 
cheese  an'  a  cracker  'stead  o'  the  cigar." 

"  Sartain,"  agreed  Blackstock,  jumping 
down  to  fetch  the  edibles  from  behind  the 
counter.  Like  most  of  the  regular  customers, 
he  knew  the  store  and  its  contents  almost  as 
well  as  Zeb  Smith  himself. 

During  the  last  few  minutes  an  immense, 
rough-haired  black  dog  had  been  sniffing  the 
stranger  over  with  suspicious  minuteness. 
The  stranger  at  first  paid  no  attention  what- 
ever, though  it  was  an  ordeal  that  many  might 
have  shrunk  from.  At  last,  seeming  to  notice 
the  animal  for  the  first  time,  he  recognized  his 
presence  by  indifferently  laying  his  hand  upon 
his  neck.  Instead  of  instantly  drawing4  off 
with  a  resentful  growl,  after  his  manner  with 
strangers,  the  dog  acknowledged  the  casual 
caress  by  a  slight  wag  of  the  tail,  and  then, 
after  a  few  moments,  turned  away  amicably 
and  lay  down. 


36      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  If  Jim  finds  him  all  right,"  thought  Black- 
stock  to  himself,  "  ther'  can't  be  much  wrong 
with  him,  though  I  can't  say  I  take  to  him 
myself."  And  he  weighed  off  a  much  bigger 
piece  of  cheese  than  he  had  at  first  intended  to 
offer,  marking1  down  his  indebtedness  on  a 
slate  which  served  the  proprietor  as  a  sort  of 
day-book.  The  stranger  fell  to  devouring  it 
with  an  eagerness  which  showed  that  his  lunch 
must  have  been  of  the  lightest. 

"  Ye  was  sayin'  as  how  ye'd  jest  come  up 
from  Cribb's  Ridge?"  put  in  a  long-legged, 
heavy-shouldered  man  who  was  sprawling  on 
a  cracker  box  behind  the  door.  He  had  short 
sandy  hair,  rapidly  thinning,  eyes  of  a  cold 
grey,  set  rather  close  together,  and  a  face  that 
suggested  a  cross  between  a  fox  and  a  fish- 
hawk.  He  was  somewhat  conspicuous  among 
his  fellows  by  the  trimness  of  his  dress,  his 
shirt  being  of  dark  blue  flannel  with  a  rolled-up 
collar  and  a  scarlet  knotted  kerchief,  while  the 
rest  of  the  mill  hands  wore  collarless  shirts  of 
grey  homespun,  with  no  thought  of  necker- 
chiefs. 

His  trousers  were  of  brown  corduroy,  and 
were  held  up  by  a  broad  belt  of  white  dressed 
buckskin,  elaborately  decorated  with  Navajo 
designs  in  black  and  red.  He  stuck  to  this 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  37 

adornment  tenaciously  as  a  sort  of  inoffensive 
proclamation  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  an 
ordinary  backwoods  mill  hand,  but  a  wanderer, 
one  who  had  travelled  far,  and  tried  his  wits 
at  many  ventures  in  the  wilder  West. 

"  Right  you  are,"  assented  the  stranger, 
brushing  some  white  cracker  crumbs  out  of 
his  black  whiskers. 

"  I  was  jest  a-wonderin',"  went  on  Hawker, 
giving  a  hitch  to  the  elaborate  belt  and  leaning 
forward  a  little  to  spit  out  through  the  door- 
way, "  if  ye've  seed  anything  o'  Jake  Sander- 
son on  the  road." 

The  stranger,  having  his  mouth  full  of 
cheese,  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"  The  boys  are  lookin'  for  him  rather 
anxious,"  explained  Blackstock  with  a  grin. 
"  He  brings  the  leetle  fat  roll  that  pays  their 
wages  here  at  the  mill,  an'  he's  due  sometime 
to-day." 

"  I  seen  him  at  Cribb's  Ridge  this  morn- 
ing," answered  the  stranger  at  last.  "  Said 
he'd  hurt  his  foot,  or  strained  his  knee,  or 
something,  an'  would  have  to  come  on  a  bit 
slow.  He'll  be  along  sometime  to-night,  I 
guess.  Didn't  seem  to  me  to  have  much  wrong 
with  him.  No,  ye  can't  have  none  o'  that 
cheese.  Go  'way  an'  lay  down,"  he  added  sud- 


38      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

denly  to  the  great  black  dog,  who  had  returned 
to  his  side  and  laid  his  head  on  the  stranger's 
knee. 

With  a  disappointed  air  the  dog  obeyed. 

"  'Tain't  often  Jim's  so  civil  to  a  stranger," 
muttered  Blackstock  to  himself. 

A  little  boy  in  a  scarlet  jacket,  with  round 
eyes  of  china  blue,  and  an  immense  mop  of 
curly,  fluffy,  silky  hair  so  palely  flaxen  as  to 
be  almost  white,  came  hopping  and  skipping 
into  the  store.  He  was  greeted  with  friendly 
grins,  while  several  voices  drawled,  "  Hullo, 
Woolly  Billy !  "  He  beamed  cheerfully  upon 
the  whole  company,  with  a  special  gleam  of 
intimate  confidence  for  Tug  Blackstock  and 
the  big  black  dog.  Then  he  stepped  up  to  the 
stranger's  knee,  and  stood  staring  with  respect- 
ful admiration  at  those  flowing  jet-black  side- 
whiskers. 

The  stranger  in  return  looked  with  a  cold 
curiosity  at  the  child's  singular  hair.  Neither 
children  rior  dogs  had  any  particular  appeal 
for  him,  but  that  hair  was  certainly  queer. 

"Most  an  albino,  ain't  he?"  he  suggested. 

"No,  he  ain't,"  replied  Tug  Blackstock, 
curtly.  The  dog,  detecting  a  note  of  resent- 
ment in  his  master's  voice,  got  up  and  stood 
beside  the  child,  and  gazed  about  the  circle  with 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  39 

an  air  of  anxious  interrogation.  Had  any  one 
been  disagreeable  to  Woolly  Billy?  And  if 
so,  who? 

But  the  little  one  was  not  in  the  least  re- 
buffed by  the  stranger's  unresponsiveness. 

'''  What's  that  ?  "  he  inquired,  patting  admir- 
ingly the  stranger's  shiny  leather  case. 

The  stranger  grew  cordial  to  him  at  once. 

"  Ah,  now  ye're  talkin',"  said  he  enthusias- 
tically, undoing  the  flap  of  the  case.  "  It's  a 
book,  sonny.  The  greatest  book,  the  most 
interestin'  book,  the  most  useful  book  —  and 
next  to  the  Bible  the  most  high-toned,  up- 
lifting book  that  was  ever  written.  Ye  can't 
read  yet,  sonny,  but  this  book  has  the  loveliest 
pictures  ye  ever  seen,  and  the  greatest  lot  of 
'em  for  the  money." 

He  drew  reverently  forth  from  the  case  a 
large,  fat  volume,  bound  sumptuously  in  em- 
bossed sky-blue  imitation  leather,  lavishly  gilt, 
and  opened  it  upon  his  knees  with  a  spacious 
gesture. 

"There,"  he  continued  proudly.  "It's 
called  '  Mother,  Home,  and  Heaven ! '  Ain't 
that  a  title  for  ye?  Don't  it  show  ye  right 
off  the  kind  of  book  it  is?  With  this  book 
by  ye,  ye  don't  need  any  other  book  in  the 
house  at  all,  except  maybe  the  almanack  an' 


40      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

the  Bible  —  an'  this  book  has  lots  o'  the  best 
bits  out  of  the  Bible  in  it,  scattered  through 
among  the  receipts  an'  things  to  keep  it  all 
wholesome  an'  upliftin'. 

"  It'll  tell  ye  such  useful  things  as  how  to 
get  a  cork  out  of  a  bottle  without  breakin'  the 
bottle,  when  ye  haven't  got  a  corkscrew,  or 
what  to  do  when  the  baby's  got  croup,  and 
there  ain't  a  doctor  this  side  of  Tourdulac. 
An*  it'll  tell  ye  how  to  live,  so  as  when  things 
happen  that  no  medicines  an'  no  doctors  and 
no  receipts  —  not  even  such  great  receipts  as 
these  here  ones  "  (and  he  slapped  his  hand  on 
the  counter)  "can  help  ye  through  —  such  as 
when  a  tree  falls  on  to  ye,  or  you  trip  and 
stumble  on  to  the  saws,  or  git  drawn  down 
under  half-a-mile  o'  raft  —  then  ye'll  be  ready 
to  go  right  up  aloft,  an'  no  questions  asked  ye 
at  the  Great  White  Gate. 

"  An'  it  has  po'try  in  it,  too,  reel  heart 
po'try,  such  as'll  take  ye  back  to  the  time  when 
ye  was  all  white  an'  innocent  o'  sin  at  yer 
mother's  knee,  an'  make  ye  wish  ye  was  like 
that  now.  In  fact,  boys,  this  book  I'm  goin' 
to  show  ye,  with  your  kind  permission,  is 
handier  than  a  pocket  in  a  shirt,  an'  at  the 
same  time  the  blessed  fragrance  of  it  is  like  a 
rose  o'  Sharon  in  the  household.  It's  in  three 
styles  o'  bindin',  all  reel  handsome,  but " 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  41 

"  I  want  to  look  at  another  picture  now," 
protested  Woolly  Billy.  "  I'm  tired  of  this  one 
of  the  angels  sayin'  their  prayers." 

His  amazing  shock  of  silver-gold  curls  was 
bent  intently  over  the  book  in  the  stranger's 
lap.  The  woodsmen,  on  the  other  hand,  kept 
on  smoking  with  a  far-off  look,  as  if  they  heard 
not  a  word  of  the  fluent  harangue.  They  had 
a  deep  distrust  and  dread  of  this  black-whis- 
kered stranger,  now  that  he  stood  revealed 
as  the  Man-Wanting-to-Sell-Something.  The 
majority  of  them  would  not  even  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  gaudy  book,  lest  by  doing  so 
they  should  find  themselves  involved  in  some 
expensive  and  complicated  obligation. 

The  stranger  responded  to  Woolly  Billy's 
appeal  by  shutting  the  book  firmly.  "  There's 
lots  more  pictures  purtier  than  that  one, 
sonny,"  said  he.  "  But  ye  must  ask  yer  dad 
to  buy  it  fer  ye.  He  won't  regret  it."  And 
he  passed  the  volume  on  to  Hawker,  who,  hav- 
ing no  dread  of  book-agents,  began  to  turn  over 
the  leaves  with  a  superior  smile. 

"  Dad's  gone  away  ever  so  far,"  answered 
Woolly  Billy  sadly.  "  It's  an  awfully  pretty 
book."  And  he  looked  at  Tug  Blackstock 
appealingly. 

"  Look  here,  mister,"  drawled  Blackstock. 


42      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  I  don't  take  much  stock  myself  in  those  kind 
of  books,  an'  moreover  (not  meanin'  no  offence 
to  you),  any  man  that's  sellin'  'em  has  got  to 
larn  to  do  a  sight  o'  lyin'.  But  as  Woolly 
Billy  here  wants  it  so  bad  I'll  take  a  copy,  if 
'tain't  too  dear.  All  the  same,  it's  only  fair 
to  warn  ye  that  ye'll  not  do  much  business  in 
Brine's  Rip,  for  there  was  a  book  agent  here 
last  year  as  got  about  ha'f  the  folks  in  the 
village  to  sign  a  crooked  contract,  and  we  was 
all  stung  bad.  I'd  advise  ye  to  move  on,  an' 
not  really  tackle  Brine's  Rip  fer  another  year 
or  so.  Now,  what's  the  price?  " 

The  stranger's  face  had  fallen  during  this 
speech,  but  it  brightened  at  the  concluding 
question. 

"  Six  dollars,  four  dollars,  an'  two  dollars 
an'  a  half,  accordin'  to  style  of  bindin',"  he 
answered,  bringing  out  a  handful  of  leaflets 
and  order  forms  and  passing  them  round 
briskly.  "  An'  ye  don't  need  to  pay  more'n 
fifty  cents  down,  an'  sign  this  order,  an'  ye 
pay  the  balance  in  a  month's  time,  when  the 
books  are  delivered.  I'll  give  ye  my  receipt 
for  the  fifty  cents,  an'  ye  jest  fill  in  this  order 
accordin'  to  the  bindin'  ye  choose.  Let  me 
advise  ye,  as  a  friend,  to  take  the  six  dollar 
one.  It's  the  best  value." 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  43 

"  Thanks  jest  the  same,"  said  Blackstock 
drily,  pulling  out  his  wallet,  "  but  I  guess 
Woolly  Billy'd  jest  as  soon  have  the  two-fifty 
one.  An'  I'll  pay  ye  the  cash  right  now.  No 
signin'  orders  fer  me.  Here's  my  name  an' 
address." 

"  Right  ye  are,"  agreed  the  stranger  cor- 
dially, pocketing  the  money  and  signing  the 
receipt.  "  Cash  payments  for  me  every  time, 
if  I  could  have  my  way.  Now,  if  some  o'  you 
other  gentlemen  will  follow  Mr.  Blackstock's 
fine  example,  ye'll  never  regret  it  —  an'  neither 
will  I." 

"  Come  on,  Woolly  Billy.  Come  on,  Jim," 
said  Blackstock,  stepping  out  into  the  street 
with  the  child  and  the  dog  at  his  heels. 
"  We'll  be  gittin'  along  home,  an'  leave  this 
gentleman  to  argy  with  the  boys." 

II 

Jake  Sanderson,  with  the  pay  for  the  mill- 
hands,  did  not  arrive  that  night,  nor  yet  the 
following  morning.  Along  toward  noon,  how- 
ever, there  arrived  a  breathless  stripling,  white- 
faced  and  wild-eyed,  with  news  of  him.  The 
boy  was  young  Stephens,  son  of  Andy  Ste- 
phens, the  game-warden.  He  and  his  father, 


44      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

coming  up  from  Cribb's  Ridge,  had  found  the 
body  of  Sanderson  lying  half  in  a  pool  beside 
the  road,  covered  with  blood.  Near  at  hand 
lay  the  bag,  empty,  slashed  open  with  a  bloody 
knife.  Stephens  had  sent  his  boy  on  into  the 
Settlement  for  help,  while  he  himself  had  re- 
mained by  the  body,  guarding  it  lest  some 
possible  clue  should  be  interfered  with. 

Swift  as  a  grass  fire,  the  shocking  news 
spread  through  the  village.  An  excited  crowd 
gathered  in  front  of  the  store,  every  one  talk- 
ing at  once,  trying  to  question  young  Stephens. 
The  Sheriff  was  away,  down  at  Fredericton 
for  a  holiday  from  his  arduous  duties.  But 
nobody  lamented  his  absence.  It  was  his 
deputy  they  all  turned  to  in  such  an  emergency. 

"  Where's  Tug  Blackstock?  "  demanded  half 
a  dozen  awed  voices.  And,  as  if  in  answer, 
the  tall,  lean  figure  of  the  Deputy  Sheriff  of 
Nipsiwaska  County  came  striding  in  haste  up 
the  sawdusty  road,  with  the  big,  black  dog 
crowding  eagerly  upon  his  heels. 

The  clamour  of  the  crowd  was  hushed  as 
Blackstock  put  a  few  questions,  terse  and  per- 
tinent, to  the  excited  boy.  The  people  of 
Nipsiwaska  County  in  general  had  the  pro- 
foundest  confidence  in  their  Deputy  Sheriff. 
They  believed  that  his  shrewd  brain  and  keen 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  45 

eye  could  find  a  clue  to  the  most  baffling  of 
mysteries.  Just  now,  however,  his  face  was 
like  a  mask  of  marble,  and  his  eyes,  sunk  back 
into  his  head,  were  like  points  of  steel.  The 
murdered  man  had  been  one  of  his  best  friends, 
a  comrade  and  helper  in  many  a  hard  enter- 
prise. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  the  lad,  "we'll  go  an' 
see."  And  he  started  off  down  the  road  at 
that  long  loose  stride  of  his,  which  was  swifter 
than  a  trot  and  much  less  tiring. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Tug,"  drawled  a  rasp- 
ing nasal  voice. 

"What  is  it,  Hawker?"  demanded  Black- 
stock,  turning  impatiently  on  his  heel. 

"  Ye  hain't  asked  nothin'  yet  about  the  Book 
Agent,  Mister  Byles,  him  as  sold  ye  '  Mother, 
Home,  an'  Heaven.'  Maybe  he  could  give  us 
some  information.  He  said  as  how  he'd  had 
some  talk  with  poor  old  Jake." 

Blackstock's  lips  curled  slightly.  He  had 
not  read  the  voluble  stranger  as  a  likely  high- 
wayman in  any  circumstances,  still  less  as  one 
to  try  issues  with  a  man  like  Jake  Sanderson. 
But  the  crowd,  eager  to  give  tongue  on  any 
kind  of  a  scent,  and  instinctively  hostile  to  a 
book  agent,  seized  greedily  upon  the  sugges- 
tion. 


46      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  Where  is  he?  "  "  Send  for  him."  "  Did 
anybody  see  him  this  mornin'  ?  "  "  Rout  him 
out!"  "Fetch  him  along!"  The  babel  of 
voices  started  afresh. 

"  He's  cleared  out,"  cried  a  woman's  shrill 
voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Stukeley,  who 
kept  the  boarding-house.  Every  one  else  was 
silent  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say. 

"  He  quit  my  place  jest  about  daylight  this 
morning,"  continued  the  woman  virulently. 
She  had  not  liked  the  stranger's  black  whiskers, 
nor  his  ministerial  garb,  nor  his  efforts  to  get 
a  subscription  out  of  her,  and  she  was  there- 
fore ready  to  believe  him  guilty  without  fur- 
ther proof.  "  He  seemed  in  a  powerful  hurry 
to  git  away,  sayin'  as  how  the  Archangel 
Gabriel  himself  couldn't  do  business  in  this 
town." 

Seeing  the  effect  her  words  produced,  and 
that  even  the  usually  imperturbable  and  dis- 
dainful Deputy  Sheriff  was  impressed  by  them, 
she  could  not  refrain  from  embroidering  her 
statement  a  little. 

"  Now  ez  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  she  went 
on,  "  I  did  notice  as  how  he  seemed  kind  of 
excited  an'  nervous  like,  so's  he  could  hardly 
stop  to  finish  his  breakfus'.  But  he  took  time 
to  make  me  knock  half-a-dollar  off  his  bill." 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  47 

"  Mac,"  said  Blackstock  sharply,  turning  to 
Red  Angus  MacDonald,  the  village  constable, 
"  you  take  two  of  the  boys  an'  go  after  the 
Book  Agent.  Find  him,  an'  fetch  him  back. 
But  no  funny  business  with  him,  mind  you. 
We  hain't  got  a  spark  of  evidence  agin  him. 
We  jest  want  him  as  a  witness,  mind." 

The  crowd's  excitement  was  somewhat 
damped  by  this  pronouncement,  and  Hawker's 
exasperating  voice  was  heard  to  drawl : 

"  No  evidence,  hey  ?  Ef  that  ain't  evidence, 
him  skinnin'  out  that  way  afore  sun-up,  I'd 
like  to  know  what  is !  " 

But  to  this  and  similar  comments  Tug  Black- 
stock  paid  no  heed  whatever.  He  hurried  on 
down  the  road  toward  the  scene  of  the  tragedy, 
his  lean  jaws  working  grimly  upon  a  huge 
chew  of  tobacco,  the  big,  black  dog  not  now  at 
his  heels  but  trotting  a  little  way  ahead  and 
casting  from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other, 
nose  to  earth.  The  crowd  came  on  behind, 
but  Blackstock  waved  them  back. 

"  I  don't  want  none  o'  ye  to  come  within 
fifty  paces  of  me,  afore  I  tell  ye  to,"  he  an- 
nounced with  decision.  "  Keep  well  back,  all 
of  ye,  or  ye'll  mess  up  the  tracks." 

But  this  proved  a  decree  too  hard  to  be 
enforced  for  any  length  of  time. 


48      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

When  he  arrived  at  the  place  where  the 
game-warden  kept  watch  beside  the  murdered 
man,  Blackstock  stood  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  looking  down  upon  the  body  of  his 
friend  with  stony  face  and  brooding  eyes.  In 
spite  of  his  grief,  his  practised  observation 
took  in  the  whole  scene  to  the  minutest  detail, 
and  photographed  it  upon  his  memory  for 
reference. 

The  body  lay  with  face  and  shoulder  and  one 
leg  and  arm  in  a  deep,  stagnant  pool  by  the 
roadside.  The  head  was  covered  with  black, 
clotted  blood  from  a  knife-wound  in  the  neck. 
Close  by,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  lay  a  stout 
leather  satchel,  gaping  open,  and  quite  empty. 
Two  small  memorandum  books,  one  shut  and 
the  other  with  white  leaves  fluttering,  lay  near 
the  bag.  Though  the  roadway  at  this  point 
was  dry  and  hard,  it  bore  some  signs  of  a 
struggle,  and  toward  the  edge  of  the  water 
there  were  several  little,  dark,  caked  lumps  of 
puddled  dust. 

Blackstock  first  examined  the  road  minutely, 
all  about  the  body,  but  the  examination,  even 
to  such  a  practised  eye  as  his,  yielded  little 
result.  The  ground  was  too  hard  and  dusty 
to  receive  any  legible  trail,  and,  moreover,  it 
had  been  carelessly  over-trodden  by  the  game- 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  49 

warden  and  his  son.  But  whether  he  found 
anything  of  interest  or  not,  Blackstock's  grim, 
impassive  face  gave  no  sign. 

At  length  he  went  over  to  the  body,  and 
lifted  it  gently.  The  coat  and  shirt  were 
soaked  with  blood,  and  showed  marks  of  a 
fierce  struggle.  Blackstock  opened  the  shirt, 
and  found  the  fatal  wound,  a  knife-thrust 
which  had  been  driven  upwards  between  the 
ribs.  He  laid  the  body  down  again,  and  at 
the  same  time  picked  up  a  piece  of  paper, 
crumpled  and  blood-stained,  which  had  lain 
beneath  it.  He  spread  it  open,  and  for  a 
moment  his  brows  contracted  as  if  in  surprise 
and  doubt.  It  was  one  of  the  order  forms  for 
"  Mother,  Home,  and  Heaven." 

He  folded  it  up  and  put  it  carefully  between 
the  leaves  of  the  note-book  which  he  always 
carried  in  his  pocket. 

Stephens,  who  was  close  beside  him,  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  paper,  and  recognized 
it. 

"  Say ! "  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath. 
"  I  never  thought  o'  him! " 

But  Blackstock  only  shook  his  head  slowly, 
and  called  the  big  black  dog,  which  had  been 
waiting  all  this  time  in  an  attitude  of  keen 
expectancy,  with  mouth  open  and  tail  gently 
wagging. 


50      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  Take  a  good  look  at  him,  Jim,"  said  Black- 
stock. 

The  dog  sniffed  the  body  all  over,  and  then 
looked  up  at  his  master  as  if  for  further 
directions. 

"  An'  now  take  a  sniff  at  this."  And  he 
pointed  to  the  rifled  bag. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  he  inquired 
when  the  dog  had  smelt  it  all  over  minutely. 

Jim  stood  motionless,  with  ears  and  tail 
drooping,  the  picture  of  irresolution  and 
bewilderment. 

Blackstock  took  out  again  the  paper  which 
he  had  just  put  away,  and  offered  it  to  the 
dog,  who  nosed  it  carefully,  then  looked  at 
the  dead  body  beside  the  pool,  and  growled 
softly. 

"  Seek  him,  Jim,"  said  Blackstock. 

At  once  the  dog  ran  up  again  to  the  body, 
and  back  to  the  open  book.  Then  he  fell  to 
circling  about  the  bag,  nose  to  earth,  seeking 
to  pick  up  the  elusive  trail. 

At  this  point  the  crowd  from  the  village, 
unable  longer  to  restrain  their  eagerness, 
surged  forward,  led  by  Hawker,  and  closed  in, 
effectually  obliterating  all  trails.  Jim  growled 
angrily,  showing  his  long  white  teeth,  and 
drew  back  beside  the  body  as  if  to  guard  it. 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  51 

Blackstock  stood  watching  his  action  with  a 
brooding  scrutiny. 

:<  What's  that  bit  o'  paper  ye  found  under 
him,  Tug  ?  "  demanded  Hawker  vehemently. 

"  None  o'  yer  business,  Sam,"  replied  the 
deputy,  putting  the  blood-stained  paper  back 
into  his  pocket. 

"  I  seen  what  it  was,"  shouted  Hawker  to 
the  rest  of  the  crowd.  "  It  was  one  o'  them 
there  dokyments  that  the  book  agent  had,  up 
to  the  store.  I  always  said  as  how  'twas 
him." 

"We'll  ketch  him!"  "We'll  string  him 
up !  "  yelled  the  crowd,  starting  back  along  the 
road  at  a  run. 

"  Don't  be  sech  fools !  "  shouted  Blackstock. 
"  Hold  on!  Come  back  I  tell  ye!  " 

But  he  might  as  well  have  shouted  to  a  flock 
of  wild  geese  on  their  clamorous  voyage 
through  the  sky.  Fired  by  Sam  Hawker's 
exhortations,  they  were  ready  to  lynch  the 
black-whiskered  stranger  on  sight. 

Blackstock  cursed  them  in  a  cold  fury. 

"  I'll  hev  to  go  after  them,  Andy,"  said  he, 
"  or  there'll  be  trouble  when  they  find  that  there 
book  agent." 

"  Better  give  'em  their  head,  Tug,"  pro- 
tested the  warden.  "  Guess  he  done  it  all 


52      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

right.  He'll  git  no  more'n's  good  for 
him." 

"  Maybe  he  did  it,  an'  then  agin,  maybe  he 
didn't,"  retorted  the  Deputy,  "  an'  anyways, 
they're  just  plumb  looney  now.  You  stay 
here,  an'  I'll  follow  them  up.  Send  Bob  back 
to  the  Ridge  to  fetch  the  coroner." 

He  turned  and  started  on  the  run  in  pursuit 
of  the  shouting  crowd,  whistling  at  the  same 
time  for  the  dog  to  follow  him.  But  to  his 
surprise  Jim  did  not  obey  instantly.  He  was 
very  busy  digging  under  a  big  whitish  stone 
at  the  other  side  of  the  pool.  Blackstock 
halted. 

"  Jim,"  he  commanded  angrily,  "  git  out  o' 
that!  What  d'ye  mean  by  foolin'  about  after 
woodchucks  a  time  like  this  ?  Come  here !  " 

Jim  lifted  his  head,  his  muzzle  and  paws 
loaded  with  fresh  earth,  and  gazed  at  his  mas- 
ter for  a  moment.  Then,  with  evident  reluc- 
tance, he  obeyed.  But  he  kept  looking  back 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  big  white  stone,  as  if 
he  hated  to  leave  it. 

"  There's  a  lot  o'  ordinary  pup  left  in  that 
there  dawg  yet,"  explained  Blackstock  apolo- 
getically to  the  game-warden. 

'  There  ain't  a  dawg  ever  lived  that 
wouldn't  want  to  dig  out  a  woodchuck,"  an- 
swered Stephens. 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  53 

III 

The  black-whiskered  stranger  had  been  over- 
taken by  his  pursuers  about  ten  miles  beyond 
Brine's  Rip,  sleeping  away  the  heat  of  the  day 
under  a  spreading  birch  tree  a  few  paces  off 
the  road.  He  was  sleeping  soundly  —  too 
soundly  indeed,  as  thought  the  experienced 
constable,  for  a  man  with  murder  on  his  soul. 

But  when  he  was  roughly  aroused  and  seized, 
he  seemed  so  terrified  that  his  captors  were  all 
the  more  convinced  of  his  guilt.  He  made  no 
resistance  as  he  was  being  hurried  along  the 
road,  only  clinging  firmly  to  his  black  leather 
case,  and  glancing  with  wild  eyes  from  side  to 
side  as  if  nerving  himself  to  a  desperate  dash 
for  liberty. 

When  he  had  gathered,  however,  a  notion  of 
what  he  was  wanted  for,  to  the  astonishment 
of  his  captors,  his  terror  seemed  to  subside  — 
a  fact  which  the  constable  noted  narrowly. 
He  steadied  his  voice  enough  to  ask  several 
questions  about  the  murder  —  questions  to 
which  reply  was  curtly  refused.  Then  he 
walked  on  in  a  stolid  silence,  the  ruddy  colour 
gradually  returning  to  his  face. 

A  couple  of  miles  before  reaching  Brine's 
Rip,  the  second  search  party  came  in  sight, 


54      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

the  Deputy  Sheriff  at  the  head  of  it  and  the 
shaggy  black  form  of  Jim  close  at  his  heels. 
With  a  savage  curse  Hawker  sprang  forward, 
and  about  half  the  party  with  him,  as  if  to 
snatch  the  prisoner  from  his  captors  and  take 
instant  vengeance  upon  him. 

But  Blackstock  was  too  quick  for  them.  The 
swiftest  sprinter  in  the  county,  he  got  to  the 
other  party  ahead  of  the  mob  and  whipped 
around  to  face  them,  with  one  hand  on  the  big 
revolver  at  his  hip  and  Jim  showing  his  teeth 
beside  him.  The  constable  and  his  party, 
hugely  astonished,  but  confident  that  Black- 
stock's  side  was  the  right  one  to  be  on,  closed 
protectingly  around  the  prisoner,  whose  eyes 
now  almost  bulged  from  his  head. 

"  You  keep  right  back,  boys,"  commanded 
the  Deputy  in  a  voice  of  steel.  "  The  law  will 
look  after  this  here  prisoner,  if  he's  the  guilty 
one." 

"  Fur  as  we  kin  see,  there  ain't  no  '  if  '  about 
it,"  shouted  Hawker,  almost  frothing  at  the 
mouth.  "  That's  the  man  as  done  it,  an'  we're 
agoin'  to  string  'im  up  f er  it  right  now,  for  fear 
he  might  git  off  some  way  at  ween  the  j  edges 
an'  the  lawyers.  You  keep  out  of  it  now, 
Tug." 

About  half  the  crowd  surged  forward  with 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  55 

Hawker  in  front.     Up  came  Blackstock's  gun. 

"  Ye  know  me,  boys,"  said  he.  "  Keep 
back." 

They  kept  back.  They  all  fell  back,  indeed, 
some  paces,  except  Hawker,  who  held  his 
ground,  half  crouching,  his  lips  distorted  in  a 
snarl  of  rage. 

"  Aw  now,  quit  it,  Sam,"  urged  one  of  his 
followers.  "  'Tain't  worth  it.  An'  Tug's 
right,  anyways.  The  law's  good  enough,  with 
Tug  to  the  back  of  it."  And  putting  forth  a 
long  arm  he  dragged  Hawker  back  into  the 
crowd. 

"  Put  away  yer  gun,  Tug,"  expostulated 
another.  "  Seein's  ye  feel  that  way  about  it, 
we  won't  interfere." 

Blackstock  stuck  the  revolver  back  into  his 
belt  with  a  grin. 

"  Glad  ye've  come  back  to  yer  senses,  boys," 
said  he,  perceiving  that  the  crisis  was  over. 
"  But  keep  an  eye  on  Hawker  for  a  bit  yet. 
Seems  to  'ave  gone  clean  off  his  head." 

"  Don't  fret,  Tug.  We'll  look  after  him," 
agreed  several  of  his  comrades  from  the  mill, 
laying  firmly  persuasive  hands  upon  the  excited 
man,  who  cursed  them  for  cowards  till  they 
began  to  chaff  him  roughly. 

"  What's  makin'  you  so  sore,  Sam  ?  "  de- 


56      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

manded  one.  "  Did  the  book  agent  try  to  make 
up  to  Sis  Hopkins  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  Tug  that  Sis  is  making  eyes  at 
now,"  suggested  another.  "  That's  what's 
puttin'  Sam  so  off  his  nut." 

"  Leave  the  lady's  name  out  of  it,  boys," 
interrupted  Blackstock,  in  a  tone  that  carried 
conviction. 

"  Quit  that  jaw  now,  Sam,"  interposed  an- 
other, changing  the  subject,  "  an'  tell  us  what 
ye've  done  with  that  fancy  belt  o'  yourn  'at 
ye're  so  proud  of.  We  hain't  never  seen  ye 
without  it  afore." 

"  That's  so,"  chimed  in  the  constable. 
"  That  accounts  for  his  foolishness.  Sam 
ain't  himself  without  that  fancy  belt." 

Hawker  stopped  his  cursing  and  pulled  him- 
self together  with  an  effort,  as  if  only  now 
realizing  that  his  followers  had  gone  over 
completely  to  the  side  of  the  law  and  Tug 
Blackstock. 

"  Busted  the  buckle,"  he  explained  quickly. 
"  Mend  it  when  I  git  time." 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  Blackstock  presently, 
"  we'll  git  right  back  along  to  where  poor 
Jake's  still  layin',  and  there  we'll  ask  this  here 
stranger  what  he  knows  about  it.  It's  there, 
if  anywheres,  where  we're  most  likely  to  git 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  57 

some  light  on  the  subject.  I've  sent  over  to 
the  Ridge  fer  the  coroner,  an'  poor  Jake  can't 
be  moved  till  he  comes." 

The  book  agent,  his  confidence  apparently 
restored  by  the  attitude  of  Blackstock,  now 
let  loose  a  torrent  of  eloquence  to  explain  how 
glad  he  would  be  to  tell  all  he  knew,  and  how 
sorry  he  was  that  he  knew  nothing,  having 
merely  had  a  brief  conversation  with  poor  Mr. 
Sanderson  on  the  morning  of  the  previous  day. 

"Ye'll  hev  lots  o'  time  to  tell  us  all  that 
when  we're  askin'  ye,"  answered  Blackstock. 
"  Now,  take  my  advice  an'  keep  yer  mouth 
shet." 

As  Blackstock  was  speaking,  Jim  slipped  in 
alongside  the  prisoner  and  rubbed  against  him 
with  a  friendly  wag  of  the  tail  as  if  to  say : 

"  Sorry  to  see  you  in  such  a  hole,  old  chap." 

Some  of  the  men  laughed,  and  one  who  was 
more  or  less  a  friend  of  Hawker's,  remarked 
sarcastically : 

"  Jim  don't  seem  quite  so  discriminatin'  as 
usual,  Tug." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  Deputy 
drily,  noting  the  dog's  attitude  with  evident 
interest.  "  Time  will  show.  Ye  must  remem- 
ber a  man  ain't  necessarily  a  murderer  jest 
because  he  wears  black  side-lights  an'  tries  to 
sell  ye  a  book  that  ain't  no  good." 


58      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  No  good !  "  burst  out  the  prisoner,  redden- 
ing with  indignation.  "  You  show  me  another 
book  that's  half  as  good,  at  double  the  price, 
an'  I'll  give  you  — " 

"  Shet  up,  you !  "  ordered  the  Deputy,  with 
a  curious  look.  "  This  ain't  no  picnic  ye're 
on,  remember." 

Then  some  one,  as  if  for  the  first  time, 
thought  of  the  money  for  which  Sanderson 
had  been  murdered. 

"Why  don't  ye  search  him,  Tug?"  he 
demanded.  "  Let's  hev  a  look  in  that  there 
black  knapsack." 

"  Ye  bloomin'  fool,"  shouted  Hawker,  again 
growing  excited,  "  ye  don't  s'pose  he'd  be  car- 
ryin'  it  on  him,  do  ye?  He'd  hev  it  buried 
somewheres  in  the  woods,  where  he  could  git 
it  later." 

"  Right  ye  are,  Sam,"  agreed  the  Deputy. 
"  The  man  as  done  the  deed  ain't  likely  to 
carry  the  evidence  around  on  him.  But  all  the 
same  we'll  search  the  prisoner  bime-by." 

By  the  time  the  strange  procession  had  got 
back  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  it  had  been 
swelled  by  half  the  population  of  the  village. 
At  Blackstock's  request,  Zeb  Smith,  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  store,  who  was  also  a  magistrate, 
swore  in  a  score  of  special  constables  to  keep 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  59 

back  the  crowd  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
the  coroner.  Under  the  magistrate's  orders 
—  which  satisfied  Blackstock's  demand  for 
strict  formality  of  procedure  —  the  prisoner 
was  searched,  and  could  not  refrain  from 
showing  a  childish  triumph  when  nothing  was 
found  upon  him. 

Passing  from  abject  terror  to  a  ridiculous 
over-confidence,  he  with  difficulty  restrained 
himself  from  seizing  the  opportunity  to 
harangue  the  crowd  on  the  merits  of  "  Mother, 
Home,  and  Heaven."  His  face  was  wreathed 
in  fatuous  smiles  as  he  saw  the  precious  book 
snatched  from  its  case  and  passed  around 
mockingly  from  hand  to  hand.  He  certainly 
did  not  look  like  a  murderer,  and  several  of 
the  crowd,  including  Stephens,  the  game- 
warden,  began  to  wonder  if  they  had  not  been 
barking  up  the  wrong  tree. 

"  I've  got  the  idee,"  remarked  Stephens, 
"  it'd  take  a  baker's  dozen  o'  that  chap  to  do  in 
Jake  Sanderson  that  way.  The  skate  as  killed 
Jake  was  some  man,  anyways." 

"  I'd  like  to  know,"  sneered  Hawker,  "  how 
ye're  going  to  account  for  that  piece  o'  paper, 
the  book-agent's  paper,  'at  Tug  Blackstock 
found  there  under  the  body." 

"  Aw,  shucks !  "  answered  the  game-warden, 


60      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  that's  easy.  He's  been  a-sowin'  'em  round 
the  country  so's  anybody  could  git  hold  of  'em, 
same's  you  er  me,  Sam ! " 

This  harmless,  if  ill-timed  pleasantry  ap- 
peared to  Hawker,  in  his  excitement,  a  wanton 
insult.  His  lean  face  went  black  as  thunder, 
and  his  lips  worked  with  some  savage  retort 
that  would  not  out.  But  at  that  instant  came 
a  strange  diversion.  The  dog  Jim,  who  under 
Blackstock's  direction  had  been  sniffing  long 
and  minutely  at  the  clothes  of  the  murdered 
man,  at  the  rifled  leather  bag,  and  at  the  ground 
all  about,  came  suddenly  up  to  Hawker  and 
stood  staring  at  him  with  a  deep,  menacing 
growl,  while  the  thick  hair  rose  stiffly  along 
his  back. 

For  a  moment  there  was  dead  silence  save 
for  that  strange  accusing  growl.  Hawker's 
face  went  white  to  the  lips.  Then,  in  a  blaze 
of  fury  he  yelled : 

"  Git  out  o'  that !  I'll  teach  ye  to  come 
showin'  yer  teeth  at  me !  "  And  he  launched 
a  savage  kick  at  the  animal. 

"  JIM !  !  Come  here !  "  rapped  out  the  com- 
mand of  Tug  Blackstock,  sharp  as  a  rifle  shot. 
And  Jim,  who  had  eluded  the  kick,  trotted  back, 
still  growling,  to  his  master. 

" Whatever  ye  been  doin'  to  Jim,  Sam?" 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  61 

demanded  one  of  the  mill  hands.  "  I  ain't 
never  seen  him  act  like  that  afore." 

"  He's  always  had  a  grudge  agin  me," 
panted  Hawker,  "  coz  I  had  to  give  him  a 
lickin'  once." 

"  Now  ye're  lyin',  Sam  Hawker,"  said 
Blackstock  quietly.  "  Ye  know  right  well  as 
how  you  an'  Jim  were  good  friends  only  yes- 
terday at  the  store,  where  I  saw  ye  feedin' 
him.  An'  I  don't  think  likely  ye've  ever  given 
Jim  a  lickin'.  It  don't  sound  probable." 

"  Seems  to  me  there's  a  lot  of  us  has  gone 
a  bit  off  their  nut  over  this  thing,  an'  not  much 
wonder,  neither,"  commented  the  game-war- 
den. "  Looks  like  Sam  Hawker  has  gone 
plumb  crazy.  An'  now  there's  Jim,  the  sensi- 
blest  dog  in  the  world,  with  lots  more  brains 
than  most  men-kind,  foolin'  away  his  time  like 
a  year-old  pup  a-tryin'  to  dig  out  a  darn  old 
woodchuck  hole." 

Such,  in  fact,  seemed  to  be  Jim's  object.  He 
was  digging  furiously  with  both  forepaws  be- 
neath the  big  white  stone  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  pool. 

"  He's  bit  me.  I'll  kill  him,"  screamed 
Hawker,  his  face  distorted  and  foam  at  the 
corners  of  his  lips.  He  plucked  his  hunting- 
knife  from  its  sheath,  and  leapt  forward 


62      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

wildly,  with  the  evident  intention  of  darting 
around  the  pool  and  knifing  the  dog. 

But  Blackstock,  who  had  been  watching  him 
intently,  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"  No,  ye  don't,  Sam !  "  he  snapped,  catching 
him  by  the  wrist  with  such  a  wrench  that  the 
bright  blade  fell  to  the  ground.  With  a 
scream,  Hawker  struck  at  his  face,  but  Black- 
stock  parried  the  blow,  tripped  him  neatly,  and 
fell  on  him. 

"  Hold  him  fast,  boys,"  he  ordered.  "  Seems 
like  he's  gone  mad.  Don't  let  him  hurt  him- 
self." 

In  five  seconds  the  raving  man  was  trussed 
up  helpless  as  a  chicken,  his  hands  tied  behind 
his  back,  his  legs  lashed  together  at  the  knees, 
so  that  he  could  neither  run  nor  kick.  Then 
he  was  lifted  to  his  feet,  and  held  thus,  inex- 
orably but  with  commiseration. 

"  Sorry  to  be  rough  with  ye,  Sam,"  said  one 
of  the  constables,  "  but  ye've  gone  crazy  as  a 
bed-bug." 

"  Never  knowed  Sam  was  such  a  friend  o' 
Jake's !  "  muttered  another,  with  deepest  pity. 

But  Blackstock  stood  close  beside  the  body 
of  the  murdered  man,  and  watched  with  a  face 
of  granite  the  efforts  of  Jim  to  dig  under  the 
big  white  stone.  His  absorption  in  such  an 


THE  BOOK  AGENT  63 

apparently  frivolous  matter  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  crowd.  A  hush  fell  upon  them 
all,  broken  only  by  the  hoarse,  half-smothered 
ravings  of  Sam  Hawker. 

'Tain't  no  woodchuck  Jim's  diggin'  for, 
you  see ! "  muttered  one  of  the  constables  to 
the  puzzled  Stephens. 

"  Tug  don't  seem  to  think  so,  neither," 
agreed  Stephens. 

"  Angus,"  said  Blackstock  in  a  low,  strained 
voice  to  the  constable  who  had  just  spoken, 
"  would  ye  mind  stepping  round  an'  givin'  Jim 
a  lift  with  that  there  stone !  " 

The  constable  hastened  to  obey.  As  he 
approached,  Jim  looked  up,  his  face  covered 
thickly  with  earth,  wagged  his  tail  in  greeting, 
then  fell  to  work  again  with  redoubled  energy. 

The  constable  set  both  hands  under  the 
stone,  and  with  a  huge  heave  turned  it  over. 
With  a  yelp  of  delight  Jim  plunged  his  head 
into  the  hole,  grabbed  something  in  his  mouth, 
and  tore  around  the  pool  with  it.  The  some- 
thing was  long  and  whitish,  and  trailed  as  he 
ran.  He  laid  it  at  Blackstock's  feet. 

Blackstock  held  it  up  so  that  all  might  see 
it.  It  was  a  painted  Indian  belt,  and  it  was 
stained  and  smeared  with  blood.  The  con- 
stable picked  out  of  the  hole  a  package  of  bills. 


64      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

For  some  moments  no  one  spoke,  and  even 
the  ravings  of  Hawker  were  stilled. 

Then  Tug  Blackstock  spoke,  while  every  one, 
as  if  with  one  consent,  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  the  face  of  Sam  Hawker,  unwilling  to 
see  a  comrade's  shame  and  horror. 

"  This  is  a  matter  now  for  jedge  and  jury, 
boys,"  said  he  in  a  voice  that  was  grave  and 
stern.  "  But  I  think  you'll  all  agree  that  we 
hain't  no  call  to  detain  this  gentleman,  who's 
been  put  to  so  much  inconvenience  all  on 
account  of  our  little  mistake." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  don't  mention  it,"  pro- 
tested the  book  agent,  as  his  guards,  with 
profuse  apologies,  released  him.  "  That's  a 
mighty  intelligent  dawg  o'  yours,  Mr.  Black- 
stock." 

"  He's  sure  done  you  a  good  turn  this  day. 
mister,"  replied  the  Deputy  grimly. 


III.     THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE 


IT  was  Woolly  Billy  who  discovered  the  pile 
—  notes  and  silver,  with  a  few  stray  gold 
pieces  —  so  snugly  hidden  under  the  fish- 
hawk's  nest. 

The  fish-hawk's  nest  was  in  the  crotch  of 
the  old,  half-dead  rock-maple  on  the  shore  of 
the  desolate  little  lake  which  lay  basking  in  the 
flat-lands  about  a  mile  back,  behind  Brine's 
Rip  Mills. 

As  the  fish-hawk  is  one  of  the  most  estimable 
of  all  the  wilderness  folk,  both  brave  and  inof- 
fensive, troubling  no  one  except  the  fat  and 
lazy  fish  that  swarmed  in  the  lake  below,  and 
as  he  is  protected  by  a  superstition  of  the  back- 
woodsmen, who  say  it  brings  ill-luck  to  disturb 
the  domestic  arrangements  of  a  fish-hawk,  the 
big  nest,  conspicuous  for  miles  about,  was 
never  disturbed  by  even  the  most  amiable 
curiosity. 

But  Woolly  Billy,  not  fully  acclimatized  to 
the  backwoods  tradition  and  superstition,  and 
uninformed  as  to  the  firmness  and  decision 
E  65 


66      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

with  which  the  fish-hawks  are  apt  to  resent  any 
intrusion,  had  long  hankered  to  explore  the 
mysteries  of  that  great  nest.  One  morning 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  try  it. 

Tug  Blackstock,  Deputy  Sheriff  of  Nipsi- 
waska  County,  was  away  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
old  Mrs.  Amos,  his  housekeeper,  was  too  deaf 
and  rheumatic  to  "  fuss  herself  "  greatly  about 
the  "  goings-on "  of  so  fantastic  a  child  as 
Woolly  Billy,  so  long  as  she  knew  he  had  Jim 
to  look  after  him.  This  serves  to  explain  how 
a  small  boy  like  Woolly  Billy,  his  seven-years- 
and-nine-months  resting  lightly  on  his  amaz- 
ingly fluffy  shock  of  pale  flaxen  curls,  could 
be  trotting  off  down  the  lonely  backwoods  trail 
with  no  companion  or  guardian  but  a  big,  black 
dog. 

Woolly  Billy  was  familiar  with  the  mossy 
old  trail  to  the  lake,  and  did  not  linger  upon  it. 
Reaching  the  shore,  he  wasted  no  time  throw- 
ing sticks  in  for  Jim  to  retrieve,  but,  in  spite 
of  the  dog's  eager  invitations  to  this  pastime, 
made  his  way  along  the  dry  edge  between 
undergrowth  and  water  till  he  came  to  the 
bluff.  Pushing  laboriously  through  the  hot, 
aromatic-scented  tangle  of  bushes,  he  climbed 
to  the  foot  of  the  old  maple,  which  looked 
dwarfed  by  the  burden  of  the  huge  nest  car- 
ried in  its  crotch. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  67 

Woolly  Billy  was  an  expert  tree-climber,  but 
this  great  trunk  presented  new  problems. 
Twice  he  went  round  it,  finding  no  likely  spot 
to  begin.  Then,  certain  roughnesses  tempted 
him,  and  he  succeeded  in  drawing  himself  up 
several  feet.  Serene  in  the  consciousness  of 
his  good  intentions,  he  struggled  on.  He 
gained  perhaps  another  foot.  Then  he  stuck. 
He  pulled  hard  upon  a  ragged  edge  of  bark, 
trying  to  work  his  way  further  around  the 
trunk.  A  patch  of  bark  came  away  suddenly 
in  his  grip  and  he  fell  backwards  with  a  startled 
cry. 

He  fell  plump  on  Jim,  rolled  off  into  the 
bushes,  picked  himself  up,  shook  the  hair  out 
of  his  eyes  and  stood  staring  up  at  a  round 
hole  in  the  trunk  where  the  patch  of  bark  had 
been. 

A  hole  in  a  tree  is  always  interesting.  It 
suggests  such  possibilities.  Forgetting  his 
scratches,  Woolly  Billy  made  haste  to  climb 
up  again,  in  spite  of  Jim's  protests.  He  peered 
eagerly  into  the  hole.  But  he  could  see 
nothing.  And  he  was  cautious  —  for  one 
could  never  tell  what  lived  in  a  hole  like  that  — 
or  what  the  occupant,  if  there  happened  to  be 
any,  might  have  to  say  to  an  intruder.  He 
would  not  venture  his  hand  into  the  unknown. 


68   JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

He  slipped  down,  got  a  bit  of  stick  and  thrust 
that  into  the  hole.  There  was  no  result,  but 
he  learnt  that  the  hole  was  shallow.  He  stirred 
the  stick  about.  There  came  a  slight  jingling 
sound  in  return. 

Woolly  Billy  withdrew  the  stick  and  thought 
for  a  moment.  He  reasoned  that  a  thing  that 
jingled  was  not  at  all  likely  to  bite.  He  dropped 
the  stick  and  cautiously  inserted  his  hand  to 
the  full  length  of  his  little  arm.  His  fingers 
grasped  something  which  felt  more  or  less 
familiar,  and  he  drew  forth  a  bank-note  and 
several  silver  coins. 

Woolly  Billy's  eyes  grew  very  round  and 
large  as  he  stared  at  his  handful.  He  was 
sure  that  money  did  not  grow  in  hollow  trees. 
Tug  Blackstock  kept  his  money  in  an  old  black 
wallet.  Woolly  Billy  liked  money  because  it 
bought  peppermints,  and  molasses  candy,  and 
gingerpop.  But  this  money  was  plainly  not 
his.  He  reluctantly  put  it  back  into  the  hole. 

Thoughtfully  he  climbed  down.  He  knew 
that  money  was  such  a  desirable  thing  that  it 
led  some  people  —  bad  people  whom  Tug 
Blackstock  hated  —  to  steal  what  did  not  be- 
long to  them.  He  picked  up  the  patch  of  bark 
and  laboriously  fitted  it  back  into  its  place  over 
the  hole,  lest  some  of  these  bad  people  should 
find  the  money  and  appropriate  it. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  69 

"  Not  a  word,  now,  not  one  single  word,"  he 
admonished  Jim,  "  till  Tug  comes  home. 
We'll  tell  him  all  about  it." 


II 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  sleepy  summer 
afternoon,  and  the  flies  buzzed  drowsily 
among  the  miscellaneous  articles  that  graced 
the  windows  of  the  Corner  Store.  The  mills 
had  shut  down  early,  because  the  supply  of 
logs  was  running  low  in  the  boom,  and  no 
more  could  be  expected  until  there  should  be 
a  rise  of  water.  Some  half-dozen  of  the  mill 
hands  were  sitting  about  the  store  on  nail-kegs 
and  soap-boxes,  while  Zeb  Smith,  the  proprie- 
tor, swung  his  long  legs  lazily  from  the  edge 
of  the  littered  counter. 

Woolly  Billy  came  in  with  a  piece  of  silver 
in  his  little  fist  to  buy  a  packet  of  tea  for  Mrs. 
Amos.  Jim,  not  liking  the  smoke,  stayed  out- 
side on  the  plank  sidewalk,  and  snapped  at 
flies.  The  child,  who  was  regarded  as  the 
mascot  of  Brine's  Rip  Mills,  was  greeted  with 
a  fire  of  solemn  chaff,  which  he  received  with 
an  impartial  urbanity. 

"  Oh,  quit  coddin'  the  kiddie,  an'  don't  try 
to  be  so  smart,"  growled  Long  Jackson,  the 


70      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

Magadavy  river-man,  lifting  his  gaunt  length 
from  a  pile  of  axe-handles,  and  thrusting  his 
fist  deep  into  his  trousers'  pocket.  "  Here, 
Zeb,  give  me  a  box  of  peppermints  for  Woolly 
Billy.  He  hain't  been  in  to  see  us  this  long 
while." 

He  pulled  out  a  handful  of  coins  and  dollar 
bills,  and  proceeded  to  select  a  silver  bit  from 
the  collection.  The  sight  was  too  much  for 
Woolly  Billy,  bursting  with  his  secret. 

"  /  know  where  there's  lots  more  money  like 
that,"  he  blurted  out  proudly,  "  in  a  hole  in  a 
tree." 

During  the  past  twelve  months  or  more 
there  had  been  thefts  of  money,  usually  of 
petty  sums,  in  Brine's  Rip  Mills  and  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  all  Tug  Blackstock's  detective 
skill  had  failed  to  gain  the  faintest  clue  to  the 
perpetrator.  Suspicions  there  had  been,  but 
all  had  vanished  into  thin  air  at  the  touch  of 
investigation.  Woolly  Billy's  amazing  state- 
ment, therefore,  was  like  a  little  bombshell  in 
the  shop. 

Every  one  of  his  audience  stiffened  up  with 
intense  interest. 

One  swarthy,  keen-featured,  slim-waisted, 
half-Indian-looking  fellow,  with  the  shapely 
hands  and  feet  that  mark  so  many  of  the  In- 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  71 

dian  mixed-bloods,  was  sitting  on  a  bale  of 
homespun  behind  Long  Jackson,  and  smoking 
solemnly  with  half-closed  lids.  His  eyes 
opened  wide  for  a  fraction  of  a  second,  and 
darted  one  searching  glance  at  the  child's  face. 
Then  he  dropped  his  lids  slowly  once  more  till 
the  eyes  were  all  but  closed.  The  others  all 
stared  eagerly  at  Woolly  Billy. 

Pleased  with  the  interest  he  had  excited, 
Woolly  Billy  glanced  about  him,  and  shook 
back  his  mop  of  pale  curls  self-consciously. 

"  Lots  more !  "  he  repeated.  "  Big  hand- 
fuls." 

Then  he  remembered  his  discretion,  his  re- 
solve to  tell  no  one  but  Tug  Blackstock  about 
his  discovery.  Seeking  to  change  the  subject, 
he  beamed  upon  Long  Jackson. 

"  Thank  you,  Long,"  he  said  politely.  "  I 
love  peppermints.  An'  Jim  loves  them,  too." 

"  Where  did  you  say  that  hole  in  the  tree 
was  ?  "  asked  Long  Jackson,  reaching  for  the 
box  that  held  the  peppermints,  and  ostenta- 
tiously filling  a  generous  paper-bag. 

Woolly  Billy  looked  apologetic  and  depre- 
cating. 

"  Please,  Long,  if  you  don't  mind  very  much, 
I  can't  tell  anybody  but  Tug  Blackstock  that" 

Jackson  laid  the  bag  of  peppermints  a  little 


72      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

to  one  side,  as  if  to  convey  that  their  transfer 
was  contingent  upon  Woolly  Billy's  behaviour. 

The  child  looked  wistfully  at  the  coveted 
sweets ;  then  his  red  lips  compressed  themselves 
with  decision  and  resentment. 

"  I  won't  tell  anybody  but  Tug  Blackstock, 
of  course,3'  said  he.  "  An'  I  don't  want  any 
peppermints,  thank  you,  Long." 

He  picked  up  his  package  of  tea  and  turned 
to  leave  the  shop,  angry  at  himself  for  having 
spoken  of  the  secret  and  angry  at  Jackson  for 
trying  to  get  ahead  of  Tug  Blackstock.  Jack- 
son, looking  annoyed  at  the  rebuff,  extended 
his  leg  and  closed  the  door.  Woolly  Billy's 
blue  eyes  blazed.  One  of  the  other  men  strove 
to  propitiate  him. 

"  Oh,  come  on,  Woolly  Billy,"  he  urged 
coaxingly,  "  don't  git  riled  at  Long.  You  an' 
him's  pals,  ye  know.  We're  all  pals  o'  yourn, 
an*  of  Tug's.  An'  there  ain't  no  harm  at  all, 
at  all,  in  yer  showin'  us  this  'ere  traysure  what 
you've  lit  on  to.  Besides,  you  know  there's 
likely  some  o'  that  there  traysure  belongs  to 
us  'uns  here.  Come  on  now,  an'  take  us  to 
yer  hole  in  the  tree." 

'  Ye  ain't  agoin'  to  git  out  o'  this  here  store, 
Woolly  Billy,  I  tell  ye  that,  till  ye  promise  to 
take  us  to  it  right  off,"  said  Long  Jackson 
sharply. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  73 

Woolly  Billy  was  not  alarmed  in  the  least 
by  this  threat.  But  he  was  so  furious  that  for 
a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  He  could  do 
nothing  but  stand  glaring  up  at  Long  Jackson 
with  such  fiery  defiance  that  the  good-natured 
mill-hand  almost  relented.  But  it  chanced 
that  he  was  one  of  the  sufferers,  and  he  was  in 
a  hurry  to  get  his  money  back.  At  this  point 
the  swarthy  woodsman  on  the  bale  of  home- 
spun opened  his  narrow  eyes  once  again,  took 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  spoke  up. 

"  Quit  plaguin'  the  kid,  Long,"  he  drawled. 
"  The  cash'll  be  all  there  when  Tug  Blackstock 
gits  back,  an'  it'll  save  a  lot  of  trouble  an' 
misunderstanding  havin'  him  to  see  to  dividin' 
it  up  fair  an'  square.  Let  Woolly  Billy  out." 

Long  Jackson  shook  his  head  obstinately, 
and  opened  his  mouth  to  reply,  but  at  this 
moment  Woolly  Billy  found  his  voice. 

"  Let  me  out!  Let  me  out!  Let  me  out!" 
he  screamed  shrilly,  stamping  his  feet  and 
clenching  his  little  fists. 

Instantly  a  heavy  body  was  hurled  upon  the 
outside  of  the  door,  striving  to  break  it  in. 

Zeb  Smith  swung  his  long  legs  down  from 
the  counter  hurriedly. 

"The  kid's  right,  an'  Black  Dan's  right. 
Open  the  door,  Long,  an'  do  it  quick.  I  don't 


74      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

want  that  there  dawg  comin'  through  the  win- 
der. An'  he'll  be  doin'  it,  too,  in  half  a  jiff." 

"  Git  along,  then,  Woolly,  if  ye  insist  on  it. 
But  no  more  peppermints,  mind,"  growled 
Jackson,  throwing  open  the  door  and  stepping 
back  discreetly.  As  he  did  so,  Jim  came  in 
with  a  rush,  just  saving  himself  from  knock- 
ing Woolly  Billy  over.  One  swift  glance  as- 
sured him  that  the  child  was  all  right,  but  very 
angry  about  something. 

"  It's  all  right,  Jim.  Come  with  me,"  said 
Woolly  Billy,  tugging  at  the  animal's  collar. 
And  the  pair  stalked  away  haughtily  side  by 
side. 

Ill 

Tug  Blackstock  arrived  the  next  morning 
about  eleven.  Before  he  had  time  to  sit  down 
for  a  cup  of  that  strenuous  black  tea  which  the 
woodsmen  consume  at  all  hours,  he  had  heard 
from  Woolly  Billy's  eager  lips  the  story  of  the 
hole  in  the  tree  beneath  the  fish-hawk's  nest. 
He  heard  also  of  the  episode  at  Zeb  Smith's 
store,  but  Woolly  Billy  by  this  time  had  quite 
forgiven  Long  Jackson,  so  the  incident  was 
told  in  such  a  way  that  Blackstock  had  no 
reason  to  take  offence. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  75 

"  Long  tried  hard,"  said  the  child,  "  to  get 
me  to  tell  where  that  hole  was,  but  I  wouldn't. 
And  Black  Dan  was  awful  nice,  an'  made  him 
stop  botherin'  me,  an'  said  I  was  quite  right 
not  to  tell  anybody  till  you  came  home,  coz 
you'd  know  just  what  to  do." 

"H'm!"  said  the  Deputy-Sheriff  thought- 
fully, "  Long's  had  a  lot  of  money  stole  from 
him,  so,  of  course,  he  wanted  to  git  his  eyes 
on  to  that  hole  quick.  But  'tain't  like  Black 
Dan  to  be  that  thoughtful.  Maybe  he  hasn't 
had  none  taken." 

While  he  was  speaking,  a  bunch  of  the  mill- 
hands  arrived  at  the  door,  word  of  Black- 
stock's  return  having  gone  through  the  village. 

"  We  want  to  go  an'  help  ye  find  that  tray- 
sure,  Tug,"  said  Long  Jackson,  glancing  some- 
what sheepishly  at  Woolly  Billy.  A  friendly 
grin  from  the  child  reassured  him,  and  he  went 
on  with  more  confidence: 

"  We  tried  to  git  the  kiddie  to  tell  us  where 
'twas,  but  wild  steers  wouldn't  drag  it  out  o' 
him  till  you  got  back." 

"  That's  right,  Long,"  agreed  Blackstock, 
"  but  it  don't  need  to  be  no  expedition.  We 
don't  want  the  whole  village  traipsin'  after  us. 
You  an'  three  or  four  more  o'  the  boys  that's 
lost  money  come  along,  with  Woolly  Billy  an' 


76   JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

me,  an'  the  rest  o'  you  meet  us  at  the  store  in 
about  a  couple  o'  hours'  time.  Tell  any  other 
folks  you  see  that  I  don't  want  'em  follerin' 
after  us,  because  it  may  mix  up  things  —  an' 
anyways,  I  don't  want  it,  see !  " 

After  a  few  moments'  hesitation  and  con- 
sultation the  majority  of  the  mill-hands  turned 
away,  leaving  Long  Jackson  and  big  Andy 
Stevens,  the  blue-eyed  giant  from  the  Oro- 
mocto  (who  had  been  one  of  the  chief  victims), 
and  MacDonald,  and  Black  Saunders,  and 
Black  Dan  (whose  name  had  been  Dan  Black 
till  the  whim  of  the  woodsmen  turned  it  about). 
Blackstock  eyed  them  appraisingly. 

"  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  bin  one  o'  the  vic- 
tims too,  Dan,"  he  remarked. 

"Didn't  ye,  Tug?"  returned  Black  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  Well,  I  didn't  say  nawthin 
about  it,  coz  I  was  after  doin'  a  leetle  detective 
work  on  me  own,  an'  mebbe  I'd  'ave  got  in 
ahead  o'  ye  if  Woolly  Billy  here  hadn't  a'  been 
so  smart.  But  I  tell  ye,  Tug,  if  that  there 
traysure's  the  lot  we're  thinkin'  it  is,  there'd 
ought  ter  be  a  five-dollar  bill  in  it  what  I've 
marked." 

"  H'm ! "  grunted  the  Deputy,  hastily  gulp- 
ing down  the  last  of  his  tea,  and  rising  to  his 
feet.  "  But  Woolly  Billy  an'  me  and  Jim's  a 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  77 

combination  pretty  hard  to  git  ahead  of,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

As  the  party  neared  the  bluff  whereon  the 
tree  of  the  fish-hawk's  nest  stood  ragged 
against  the  sky,  the  air  grew  rank  with  the 
pungent  odour  of  skunk.  Now  skunks  were 
too  common  in  the  region  of  Brine's  Rip  Mills 
for  that  smell,  as  a  rule,  to  excite  any  more 
comment  than  an  occasional  disgusted  execra- 
tion when  it  became  too  concentrated.  But 
to-day  it  drew  more  than  passing  attention. 
MacDonald  sniffed  intently. 

"  It's  deuced  queer,"  said  he,  "  but  I've 
noticed  that  there's  always  been  a  smell  of 
skunk  round  when  anybody's  lost  anything. 
Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  way,  Tug?  " 

"  Yes,  some !  "  assented  the  Deputy  curtly. 

"  It's  a  skunk,  all  right,  that's  been  takin' 
our  money,"  said  big  Andy,  "  ef  he  don't  carry 
his  tail  over  his  back." 

Every  one  of  the  party  was  sniffing  the 
tainted  air  as  if  the  familiar  stench  were  some 
rare  perfume  —  all  but  Jim.  He  had  had  an 
encounter  with  a  skunk,  once  in  his  impulsive 
puppy  days,  and  the  memory  was  too  painful 
to  be  dwelt  upon. 

As  they  climbed  the  slope,  one  of  the  fish^ 
hawks  came  swooping  down  from  somewhere 


78      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

high  in  the  blue,  and  began  circling  on  slow 
wings  about  the  nest. 

"  That  cross  old  bird  doesn't  like  visitors," 
remarked  Woolly  Billy. 

"  You  wouldn't,  neether,  Woolly  Billy,  if 
you  was  a  fish-hawk,"  said  Jackson. 

Arrived  at  the  tree,  Woolly  Billy  pointed 
eagerly  to  a  slightly  broken  piece  of  bark  a 
little  above  the  height  of  the  Deputy's  head. 

"  There's  the  hole ! "  he  cried,  clapping  his 
hands  in  his  excitement  as  if  relieved  to  find  it 
had  not  vanished. 

"  Keep  off  a  bit  now,  boys,"  cautioned  Black- 
stock.  Drawing  his  long  hunting-knife,  he 
carefully  loosened  the  bark  without  letting  his 
hand  come  in  contact  with  it,  and  on  the  point 
of  the  blade  laid  it  aside  against  the  foot  of 
the  trunk. 

"  Don't  any  of  you  tech  it,"  he  admonished. 

Then  he  slipped  his  hand  into  the  hole,  and 
felt  about. 

A  look  of  chagrin  came  over  his  face,  and 
he  withdrew  his  hand  —  empty. 

"  Nothin'  there!  "  said  he. 

"  It  was  there  yesterday  morning,"  pro- 
tested Woolly  Billy,  his  blue  eyes  filling  with 
tears. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  agreed  Blackstock, 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  79 

glancing  slowly  around  the  circle  of  disap- 
pointed faces. 

"  Somebody  from  the  store's  been  blabbin'," 
exclaimed  Black  Dan,  in  a  loud  and  angry 
voice. 

"  An'  why  not  ?  "  protested  Big  Andy,  with 
a  guilty  air.  "  We  never  said  nawthin'  about 
keepin'  it  a  secret." 

In  spite  of  their  disappointment,  the  mill- 
hands  laughed.  Big  Andy  was  not  one  to 
keep  a  secret  in  any  case,  and  his  weakness  for 
a  certain  pretty  widow  who  kept  the  post-office 
was  common  comment.  Big  Andy  responded 
by  blushing  to  the  roots  of  his  blonde  hair. 

"  Jim !  "  commanded  the  Deputy.  And  the 
big  black  dog  bounded  up  to  him,  his  eyes 
bright  with  expectation.  The  Deputy  picked 
him  up,  and  held  him  aloft  with  his  muzzle  to 
the  edges  of  the  hole. 

"  Smell  that,"  he  ordered,  and  Jim  sniffed 
intently.  Then  he  set  him  down  and  directed 
him  to  the  piece  of  bark.  That,  too,  Jim's 
nose  investigated  minutely,  his  feathered  tail 
slowly  wagging. 

"  Seek  him,"  ordered  Blackstock. 

Jim  whined,  looked  puzzled,  and  sniffed 
again  at  the  bark.  The  information  which 
his  subtle  nose  picked  up  there  was  extremely 


80      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

confusing.  First,  there  was  the  smell  of 
skunk  —  but  that  smell  of  skunk  was  every- 
where, dulling  the  keenness  of  his  discrimina- 
tion. Then,  there  was  a  faint,  faint  reminis- 
cence of  Woolly  Billy.  But  there  was  Woolly 
Billy,  at  Tug  Blackstock's  side.  Certainly, 
there  could  be  no  reason  for  him  to  seek  Woolly 
Billy.  Then  there  was  an  elusive,  tangled 
scent,  which  for  some  moments  defied  him.  At 
last,  however,  he  got  a  clue  to  it.  With  a 
pleased  bark  —  his  way  of  saying  "  Eureka !  " 
—  he  whipped  about,  trotted  over  to  big  Andy 
Stevens,  sat  down  in  front  of  him,  and  gazed 
up  at  him,  with  tongue  hanging  and  an  air  of 
friendly  inquiry,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  Here  I 
am,  Andy.  But  I  don't  know  what  Tug 
Blackstock  wants  me  to  seek  you  for,  seein'  as 
you're  right  here  alongside  him." 

Big  Andy  dropped  his  hand  on  the  dog's 
head  familiarly ;  then  noticing  the  sudden  tense 
silence  of  the  party,  his  eyes  grew  very  big 
and  round. 

"  What're  you  all  starin'  at  me  f er,  boys  ?  " 
he  demanded,  with  a  sort  of  uneasy  wonder. 

"  Ax  Jim,"  responded  Black  Dan,  harshly. 

"  I  reckon  old  Jim's  makin'  a  mistake  fer 
once,  Tug,"  drawled  Long  Jackson,  who  was 
Andy's  special  pal. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  81 

The  Deputy  rubbed  his  lean  chin  reflectively. 
There  could  be  no  one  more  above  suspicion  in 
his  eyes  than  this  transparently  honest  young 
giant  from  the  Oromocto.  But  Jim's  curious 
action  had  scattered  to  the  winds,  at  least  for 
a  moment,  a  sort  of  hypothesis  which  he  had 
been  building  up  in  his  mind.  At  the  same 
time,  he  felt  dimly  that  a  new  clue  was  being 
held  out  to  him,  if  he  could  only  grasp  it.  He 
wanted  time  to  think. 

"  We  kin  all  make  mistakes,"  he  announced 
sententiously.  "  Come  here,  Jim.  Seek  'im, 
boy,  seek  'im."  And  he  waved  his  hand  at 
large. 

Jim  bounced  off  with  a  joyous  yelp,  and  be- 
gan quartering  the  ground,  hither  and  thither, 
all  about  the  tree.  Big  Andy,  at  a  complete 
loss  for  words,  stood  staring  from  one  to 
another  with  eyes  of  indignant  and  incredulous 
reproach. 

Suddenly  a  yelp  of  triumph  was  heard  in 
the  bushes,  a  little  way  down  towards  the  lake, 
and  Jim  came  racing  back  with  a  dark  magenta 
article  in  his  mouth.  At  the  foot  of  the  tree 
he  stopped,  and  looked  at  Blackstock  interrog- 
atively. Receiving  no  sign  whatever  from  his 
master,  whose  face  had  lit  up  for  an  instant, 
but  was  now  as  impassive  as  a  hitching-post, 


82   JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

he  stared  at  Black  Dan  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  let  his  eyes  wander  back  to  Andy's  face. 
In  the  midst  of  his  obvious  hesitation  the  Oro- 
mocto  man  stepped  forward. 

"  Durned  ef  that  ain't  one  o'  my  old  mit- 
tens," he  exclaimed  eagerly,  "  what  Sis  knit 
f er  me.  I've  been  lookin'  f er  'em  everywheres. 
Bring  it  here,  Jim." 

As  the  dog  trotted  up  with  it  obediently,  the 
Deputy  intervened  and  stopped  him.  "You 
shall  have  it  bime-by,  Andy,"  said  he,  "  ef  it's 
yourn.  But  jest  now  I  don't  want  nobody  to 
tech  it  except  Jim.  Ef  you  acknowledge  it's 
yourn  — " 

"  Of  course  it's  mine,"  interrupted  Andy 
resentfully.  "An'  I  want  to  find  the  other 
one." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Blackstock.  "Drop  it,  Jim. 
Go  find  the  other  mitt." 

As  Jim  went  ranging  once  more  through  the 
bushes,  the  whole  party  moved  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  tree  to  get  out  of  the  down- 
pour of  the  noon  sun.  As  they  passed  the 
magenta  mitten  Black  Dan  picked  it  up  and 
examined  it  ostentatiously. 

"How  do  ye  know  it's  yourn,  Andy?"  he 
demanded.  "There's  lots  of  magenta  mitts 
in  the  world,  I  reckon." 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  83 

Tug  Blackstock  turned  upon  him. 

"  I  said  I  didn't  want  no  one  to  tech  that 
mitt,"  he  snapped. 

"  Oh,  beg  pardon,  Tug,"  said  Dan,  dropping 
the  mitt.  "  I  forgot.  'S'pose  it  might  kind  o' 
confuse  Jim's  scent,  gittin'  another  smell  be- 
sides Andy's  on  to  it." 

"  It  might,"  replied  the  Deputy  coolly,  "  an' 
then  agin,  it  mightn't." 

For  a  little  while  every  one  was  quiet,  listen- 
ing to  Jim  as  he  crashed  about  through  the 
bushes,  and  confidently  but  unreasonably  ex- 
pecting him  to  reappear  with  the  other  mitten. 
Or,  at  least,  that  was  what  Big  Andy  and 
Woolly  Billy  expected.  The  Deputy,  at  least, 
did  not.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"  I  agree  with  Mac  here,  boys,"  said  he, 
"  that  there  may  be  somethin'  more'n  skunk  in 
this  skunk  smell.  We'll  jest  look  into  it  a  bit. 
You  all  keep  back  a  ways  —  an'  you,  Long,  jest 
keep  an  eye  on  Woolly  Billy  ef  ye  don't  mind, 
while  I  go  on  with  Jim." 

He  whistled  to  the  dog,  and  directed  his 
attention  to  a  spot  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
exactly  beneath  the  hole.  Jim  sniffed  hard 
at  the  spot,  then  looked  up  at  his  master  with 
tail  drooping  despondently. 

"Yes,    I   know   it's   skunk,   plain   skunk," 


84      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

agreed  the  Deputy.  "But  I  want  him.  Seek 
him,  Jim  —  seek  him,  boy." 

Thus  reassured,  Jim's  tail  went  up  again. 
He  started  off  through  the  bushes,  down  to- 
wards the  lake,  with  his  master  close  behind 
him.  The  rest  of  the  party  followed  thirty 
paces  or  so  behind. 

The  trail  led  straight  down  to  the  lake's  edge. 
Here  Jim  stopped  short. 

"  That  skunk's  a  kind  o'  water-baby,"  re- 
marked Long  Jackson. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  queried  Woolly 
Billy,  much  interested. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Jackson.  "  Don't 
you  see  he's  took  to  the  water  ?  Now,  yer  com- 
mon, no-account  skunk  hates  wettin'  his  fur 
like  pizen." 

The  Deputy  examined  the  hard,  white  sand 
at  the  water's  edge.  It  showed  faint  traces  of 
moccasined  feet.  He  pursed  his  lips.  It  was 
an  old  game,  but  a  good  one,  this  breaking  a 
trail  by  going  into  the  water.  He  had  no  way 
of  deciding  whether  his  quarry  had  turned  up 
the  lake  shore  or  down  towards  the  outlet.  He 
guessed  at  the  latter  as  the  more  likely  alter- 
native. 

Jim  trotted  slowly  ahead,  sniffing  every  foot 
of  ground  along  the  water's  edge.  As  they 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  85 

approached  the  outlet  the  shore  became  muddy, 
and  Jackson  swung  Woolly  Billy  up  on  to  his 
shoulder.  Once  in  the  outlet,  the  foreshore 
narrowed  to  a  tiny  strip  of  bare  rock  between 
the  water  and  an  almost  perpendicular  bank 
covered  with  shrubs  and  vines.  All  at  once 
the  smell  of  skunk,  which  had  been  almost  left 
behind,  returned  upon  the  air  with  fresh  pun- 
gency. Blackstock  stopped  short  and  scanned 
the  bank  with  narrowed  eyes. 

A  second  or  two  later,  Jim  yelped  his  signal, 
and  his  tail  went  up.  He  sniffed  eagerly  across 
the  ribbon  of  rock,  and  then  leapt  at  the  face 
of  the  bank. 

The  Deputy  called  him  off  and  hurried  to 
the  spot.  The  rest  of  the  party,  much  excited, 
closed  up  to  within  four  or  five  paces,  when  a 
wave  of  the  Deputy's  hand  checked  them. 

"  Phew !  "  ejaculated  Black  Dan,  holding  his 
nose.  "  There's  a  skunk  hole  in  that  there 
bank.  Ye'll  be  gittin'  somethin'  in  the  eye, 
Tug,  ef  ye  don't  keep  off." 

Blackstock,  who  was  busy  pulling  apart  the 
curtain  of  vines,  paid  no  attention,  but  Long 
Jackson  answered  sarcastically: 

"  Ye  call  yerself  a  woodsman,  Dan,"  said 
he,  "  an'  ye  don't  know  that  the  hole  where  a 
skunk  lives  don't  smell  anv.  Yer  reel  skunk's 


86      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

quite  a  gentleman  and  keeps  his  home  always 
clean  an'  tidy.  Tug  Blackstock  ain't  a-goin' 
to  git  nawthin'  in  the  eye." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  we'd  better  smoke,"  said 
Black  Dan  amiably,  pulling  out  his  pipe  and 
filling  it.  And  the  others  followed  his  example. 

Blackstock  thrust  his  hand  into  a  shallow 
hole  in  the  bank  quite  hidden  by  the  foliage. 
He  drew  out  a  pair  of  moccasins,  water-soaked, 
and  hurriedly  set  them  down  on  the  rock.  For 
all  their  soaking,  they  reeked  of  skunk.  He 
picked  up  one  on  the  point  of  a  stick  and  exam- 
ined it  minutely.  In  spite  of  all  the  soaking, 
the  sole,  to  his  initiated  eye,  still  bore  traces 
of  that  viscous,  oily  liquid  which  no  water  will 
wash  off  —  the  strangling  exudation  of  the 
skunk's  defensive  gland.  It  was  just  what  he 
had  expected.  The  moccasin  was  neat  and 
slim  and  of  medium  size  —  not  more  than 
seven  at  most.  He  held  it  up,  that  all  might 
see  it  clearly. 

"  Does  this  belong  to  you,  Andy  Stevens  ?  " 
he  asked. 

There  was  a  jeer  from  the  group,  and  Big 
Andy  held  up  an  enormous  foot,  which  might, 
by  courtesy,  have  been  numbered  a  thirteen. 
It  was  a  point  upon  which  the  Oromocto  man 
was  usually  sensitive,  but  to-day  he  was  proud 
of  it. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE  87 

"  Ye'll  hev  to  play  Cinderella,  Tug,  an'  find 
out  what  leetle  foot  it  fits  on  to,"  suggested 
MacDonald. 

The  Deputy  fished  again  in  the  hole.  He 
drew  forth  a  magenta  mitten,  dropped  it 
promptly,  then  held  it  up  on  the  point  of  his 
stick  at  arm's  length.  It  had  been  with  the 
moccasins.  Big  Andy  stepped  forward  to 
claim  it,  then  checked  himself. 

:<  It's  a  mite  too  strong  fer  me  now,"  he 
protested.  "  I'll  hev  to  git  Sis  to  knit  me 
another  pair,  I  guess." 

Blackstock  dropped  the  offensive  thing  be- 
side the  moccasins  at  his  feet,  and  reached 
once  more  into  the  hole. 

"  He  ain't  takin'  no  risks  this  time,  boys," 
said  Blackstock.  "  He's  took  the  swag  with 
him." 

There  was  a  growl  of  disappointment. 
Long  Jackson  could  not  refrain  from  a  re- 
proachful glance  at  Woolly  Billy,  but  refrained 
from  saying  the  obvious. 

"  What  are  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Tug?  " 
demanded  Black  Dan.  "  Hev  ye  got  any  kind 
of  a  reel  clue,  d'ye  think,  now?  " 

"  Wait  an'  see,"  was  Blackstock's  noncom- 
mittal reply.  He  picked  up  the  moccasins  and 
mitten  again  on  the  point  of  his  stick,  scanned 


88      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

the  bank  sharply  to  make  sure  his  quarry  had 
not  gone  that  way,  and  led  the  procession  once 
more  down  along  the  rocky  shore  of  the  stream. 
"  Seek  him,"  he  said  again  to  Jim,  and  the  dog, 
as  before,  trotted  on  ahead,  sniffing  along  by 
the  water's  edge  to  intercept  the  trail  of  who- 
ever had  stepped  ashore. 

The  party  emerged  at  length  upon  the  bank 
of  the  main  stream,  and  turned  upwards 
towards  Brine's  Rip.  After  they  had  gone 
about  half  a  mile  they  rounded  a  bend  and 
came  in  sight  of  a  violent  rapid  which  cut  close 
inshore.  At  this  point  it  would  be  obviously 
impossible  for  any  one  walking  in  the  shallow 
water  to  avoid  coming  out  upon  dry  ground. 
Tug  Blackstock  quickened  his  pace,  and  waved 
Jim  forward. 

A  sharp  oath  broke  from  Black  Dan's  lips. 

"  I've  been  an'  gone  an'  left  my  'baccy-pooch 
behind,  by  the  skunk's  hole,"  he  announced. 
And  grumbling  under  his  breath  he  turned 
back  down  the  shore. 

Blackstock  ran  on,  as  if  suddenly  in  a  great 
hurry.  Just  where  the  shallow  water  ended, 
at  the  foot  of  the  rapid,  Jim  gave  his  signal 
with  voice  and  tail.  He  raced  up  the  bank  to 
a  clump  of  bushes  and  began  thrashing  about 
in  them. 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  TREE      •        89 

"What  d'ye  suppose  he's  found  there?" 
asked  Big  Andy. 

"  Scent,  and  lots  of  it.  No  mistake  this 
time,"  announced  MacDonald.  "  Hain't  ye 
caught  on  to  Jim's  signs  yet  ?  " 

"  Jim,"  said  the  Deputy,  sharply  but  not 
loud,  "  fetch  him! " 

Jim,  with  nose  in  air  instead  of  to  the  ground, 
set  off  at  a  gallop  down  the  shore  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  outlet. 

The  Deputy  turned  about. 

"  Dan,"  he  shouted  peremptorily.  "  Come 
back  here.  I  want  ye !  " 

Instead  of  obeying,  Black  Dan  dashed  up 
the  bank,  running  like  a  deer,  and  vanished 
into  the  bushes. 

"I  knew  it!  That's  the  skunk,  boys.  Go 
home,  you  Billy !  "  cried  Blackstock,  and  started 
after  the  fugitive.  The  rest  followed  close  on 
his  heels.  But  Jackson  cried : 

"  Ye'd  better  call  off  Jim  quick.  Dan's  got 
a  gun  on  him." 

The  Deputy  gave  a  shrill  whistle,  and  Jim, 
who  was  just  vanishing  into  the  bush,  stopped 
short.  At  the  same  instant  a  shot  rang  out 
from  the  bushes,  and  the  dog  dropped  in  his 
tracks  with  a  howl  of  anguish. 

Blackstock's  lean  jaws  set  themselves  like 


90      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

iron.  He  whipped  out  his  own  heavy 
"  Colt's,"  and  the  party  tore  on,  till  they  met 
Jim  dragging  himself  towards  them  with  a 
wounded  hind-leg  trailing  pitifully. 

The  Deputy  gave  one  look  at  the  big  black 
dog,  heaved  a  breath  of  relief,  and  stopped. 

"  'Tain't  no  manner  o'  use  chasm'  him  now, 
boys,"  he  decreed,  "  because,  as  we  all  know, 
Dan  kin  run  right  away  from  the  best  runner 
amongst  us.  But  now  I  know  him  —  an'  I've 
suspicioned  him  this  two  month,  only  I  couldn't 
git  no  clue  —  I'll  git  him,  never  you  fear. 
Jest  now,  ye'd  better  help  me  carry  Jim  home, 
so's  we  kin  git  him  doctored  up  in  good  shape. 
I  reckon  Nipsiwaska  County  can't  afford 
to  lose  Mr.  Assistant-Deputy  Sheriff.  That 
there  skunk-oil  on  Dan's  moccasins  fooled  both 
Jim  an'  me,  good  an'  plenty,  didn't  it  ?  " 

"  But  whatever  did  he  want  o'  my  mitts  ?  " 
demanded  Big  Andy. 

"  Now  ye  air  a  sap-head,  Andy  Stevens," 
growled  MacDonald,  "  ef  ye  can't  see  that! " 


IV.     THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR 

I 

THE  Deputy  Sheriff  of  Nipsiwaska  County 
had  spent  half  an  hour  at  the  telephone. 
In  the  backwoods  the  telephone  wires  go  every- 
where. In  that  half-hour  every  settlement, 
every  river-crossing,  every  lumber-camp,  and 
most  of  the  wide-scattered  pioneer  cabins  had 
been  warned  of  the  flight  of  the  thief,  Dan 
Black,  nicknamed  Black  Dan,  and  how,  in  the 
effort  to  secure  his  escape,  he  had  shot  and 
wounded  the  Deputy  Sheriff's  big  black  dog 
whose  cleverness  on  the  trail  he  had  such  cause 
to  dread.  As  Tug  Blackstock,  the  Deputy 
Sheriff,  came  out  of  the  booth  he  asked  after 
Jim. 

"  Oh,  Black  Dan's  bullet  broke  no  bones  that 
time,"  replied  the  village  doctor,  who  had 
tended  the  dog's  wound  as  carefully  as  if  his 
patient  had  been  the  Deputy  himself.  "  It's 
a  biggish  hole,  but  Jim'll  be  all  right  in  a  few 
days,  never  fear." 

Blackstock  looked  relieved. 

"  Ye  don't  seem  to  be  worryin'  much  about 
91 


92      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

Black  Dan's  gittin'  away,  Tug,"  grumbled 
Long  Jackson,  who  was  not  unnaturally  sore 
over  the  loss  of  his  money. 

"  No,  I  ain't  worryin'  much,"  agreed  the 
Deputy,  with  a  confident  grin,  "  now  I  know 
Jim  ain't  goin'  to  lose  a  leg.  As  for  Black 
Dan's  gittin'  away,  well,  I've  got  me  own 
notions  about  that.  I've  'phoned  all  over  the 
three  counties,  and  given  warnin'  to  every 
place  he  kin  stop  for  a  bite  or  a  bed. 
He  can't  cross  the  river  to  get  over  the 
Border,  for  I've  sent  word  to  hev  every 
bridge  an'  ferry  watched.  Black  Dan's  cun- 
nin'  enough  to  know  I'd  do  jest  that,  first 
thing,  so  he  won't  waste  his  time  tryin'  the 
river.  He'll  strike  right  back  into  the  big 
timber,  countin'  on  the  start  he's  got  of  us, 
now  he's  put  Jim  out  of  the  game.  But  I  guess 
I  kin  trail  him  myself  —  now  I  know  what 
I'm  trailin'  —  pretty  nigh  as  well  as  Jim  could. 
I've  took  note  of  his  tracks,  and  there  ain't 
another  pair  o'  boots  in  Brine's  Rip  Mills  like 
them  he's  wearin'." 

"  And  when  air  ye  goin'  to  start  ? "  de- 
manded Long  Jackson,  still  inclined  to  be 
resentful. 

"  Right  now,"  replied  Blackstock  cheerfully, 
"  soon  as  ye  kin  git  guns  and  stuff  some  crack- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  93 

ers  an'  cheese  into  yer  pockets.  I'll  want  you 
to  come  along,  MacDonald,  an'  you,  Long,  an' 
Saunders,  an'  Big  Andy,  as  my  posse.  Meet 
me  in  fifteen  minutes  at  the  store  an'  I'll  hev 
Zeb  Smith  swear  ye  in  for  the  job.  If  Black 
Dan  wants  to  do  any  shootin',  it's  jest  as  well 
to  hev  everythin'  regular." 

There  were  not  a  few  others  among  the  mill- 
hands  and  the  villagers  who  had  lost  by  Black 
Dan's  cunning  pilferings,  and  who  would 
gladly  have  joined  in  the  hunt.  In  the  back- 
woods not  even  a  murderer  —  unless  his  vic- 
tim has  been  a  woman  or  a  child  —  is  hunted 
down  with  so  much  zest  as  a  thief.  But  the 
Deputy  did  not  like  too  much  volunteer  assist- 
ance, and  was  apt  to  suppress  it  with  scant 
ceremony.  So  his  choice  of  a  posse  was  ac- 
cepted without  protest  or  comment,  and  the 
chosen  four  slipped  off  to  get  their  guns. 

As  Tug  Blackstock  had  foreseen,  the  trail  of 
the  fugitive  was  easily  picked  up.  Confident 
in  his  powers  as  a  runaway,  Black  Dan's  sole 
object,  at  first,  had  been  to  gain  as  much  lead 
as  possible  over  the  expected  pursuit,  and  he 
had  run  straight  ahead,  leaving  a  trail  which 
any  one  of  Blackstock's  posse  —  with  the  ex- 
ception, perhaps,  of  Big  Andy  —  could  have 
followed  with  almost  the  speed  and  precision 
of  the  Deputy  himself. 


94      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

There  had  been  no  attempt  at  concealment. 
About  five  miles  back,  however,  in  the  heavy 
woods  beyond  the  head  of  the  Lake,  it  appeared 
that  the  fugitive  had  dropped  into  a  walk  and 
begun  to  go  more  circumspectly.  The  trail 
now  grew  so  obscure  that  the  other  woodsmen 
would  have  had  difficulty  in  deciphering  it  at 
all,  and  they  were  amazed  at  the  ease  and  con- 
fidence with  which  Blackstock  followed  it  up, 
hardly  diminishing  his  stride. 

:<  Tug  is  sure  some  trailer,"  commented 
Jackson,  his  good  humour  now  quite  restored 
by  the  progress  they  were  making. 

"Jim  couldn't  'a'  done  no  better  himself," 
declared  Big  Andy,  the  Oromocto  man. 

And  just  then  Blackstock  came  abruptly  to 
a  halt,  and  held  up  his  hand  for  his  followers 
to  stop. 

"  Steady,  boys.  Stop  right  where  ye  are, 
an'  don't  step  out  o'  yer  tracks,"  he  com- 
manded. 

The  four  stood  rigid,  and  began  searching 
the  ground  all  about  them  with  keen,  in- 
itiated eyes. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  him,  so  fur,  all  right,"  con- 
tinued Blackstock,  pointing  to  a  particularly 
clear  and  heavy  impression  of  a  boot-sole  close 
behind  his  own  feet.  "  But  here  it  stops.  It 
don't  appear  to  go  any  further." 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  95 

He  knelt  down  to  examine  the  footprint. 

"  P'raps  he's  doubled  back  on  his  tracks,  to 
throw  us  off,"  suggested  Saunders,  who  was 
himself  an  expert  on  the  trails  of  all  the  wild 
creatures. 

"  No,"  replied  Blackstock,  "  I've  watched 
out  for  that  sharp." 

"  P'raps  he's  give  a  big  jump  to  one  side  or 
t'other,  to  break  his  trail,"  said  MacDonald. 

"  No,"  said  Blackstock  with  decision,  "  nor 
that  neither,  Mac.  This  here  print  is  even. 
Ef  he'd  jumped  to  one  side  or  the  other,  it 
would  be  dug  in  on  that  side,  and  ef  he'd 
jumped  forrard,  it  would  be  hard  down  at  the 
toe.  It  fair  beats  me !  " 

Stepping  carefully,  foot  by  foot,  he  exam- 
ined the  ground  minutely  over  a  half  circle  of 
a  dozen  yards  to  his  front.  He  sent  out  his 
followers  —  all  but  Big  Andy,  who,  being  no 
trailer,  was  bidden  to  stand  fast  —  to  either 
side  and  to  the  rear,  crawling  like  ferrets  and 
interrogating  every  grass  tuft,  in  vain.  The 
trail  had  simply  stopped  with  that  one  foot- 
print. It  was  as  if  Black  Dan  had  dissolved 
into  a  miasma,  and  floated  off. 

At  last  Blackstock  called  the  party  in,  and 
around  the  solitary  footprint  they  all  sat  down 
and  smoked.  One  after  another  they  made 


96      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

suggestions,  but  each  suggestion  had  its  futil- 
ity revealed  and  sealed  by  a  stony  stare  from 
Blackstock,  and  was  no  more  befriended  by 
its  author. 

At  last  Blackstock  rose  to  his  feet,  and  gave 
a  hitch  to  his  belt. 

"  I  don't  mind  tellin'  ye,  boys,"  said  he,  "  it 
beats  me  fair.  But  one  thing's  plain  enough, 
Black  Dan  ain't  here,  an'  he  ain't  likely  to  come 
here  lookin'  for  us.  Spread  out  now,  an*  we'll 
work  on  ahead,  an'  see  ef  we  can't  pick  up 
somethin'.  You,  Big  Andy,  you  keep  right 
along  behind  me.  There's  an  explanation  to 
everything  —  an'  we'll  find  this  out  afore 
long,  or  my  name's  Dennis." 

Over  the  next  three  or  four  hundred  yards, 
however,  nothing  of  significance  was  discov- 
ered by  any  of  the  party.  Then,  breaking 
through  a  dense  screen  of  branches,  Black- 
stock  came  upon  the  face  of  a  rocky  knoll, 
so  steep,  at  that  point,  that  hands  and  feet 
together  would  be  needed  to  climb  it.  Cast- 
ing his  eyes  upwards,  he  saw  what  looked  like 
the  entrance  to  a  little  cave. 

A  whistle  brought  the  rest  of  the  party  to 
his  side.  A  cave  always  holds  possibilities, 
if  nothing  else.  Blackstock  spread  his  men 
out  again,  at  intervals  of  three  or  four  paces, 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  97 

and  all  went  cautiously  up  the  steep,  converg- 
ing on  the  entrance.  Blackstock,  in  the  centre, 
shielding  himself  behind  a  knob  of  rock,  peered 
in. 

The  place  was  empty.  It  was  hardly  a  cave, 
indeed,  being  little  more  than  a  shallow  recess 
beneath  an  overhanging  ledge.  But  it  was 
well  sheltered  by  a  great  branch  which 
stretched  upwards  across  the  opening.  Black- 
stock  sniffed  critically. 

"  A  bear's  den,"  he  announced,  stepping  in 
and  scrutinizing  the  floor. 

The  floor  was  naked  rock,  scantily  littered 
with  dead  leaves  and  twigs.  These,  Black- 
stock  concluded,  had  been  recently  disturbed, 
but  he  could  find  no  clue  to  what  had  disturbed 
them.  From  the  further  side,  however  —  to 
Blackstock's  right  —  a  palpable  trail,  worn 
clear  of  moss  arid  herbage,  led  off  by  a  narrow 
ledge  across  the  face  of  the  knoll.  Half  a 
dozen  paces  further  on  the  rock  ended  in  a 
stretch  of  stiff  soil.  Here  the  trail  declared 
itself.  It  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  bear, 
and  unmistakably,  also,  a  fresh  trail. 

Waving  the  rest  to  stop  where  they  were, 
Blackstock  followed  the  clear  trail  down  from 
the  knoll,  and  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
along  the  level,  going  very  slowly,  and  search- 


98      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

ing  it  hawk-eyed  for  some  sign  other  than  that 
of  bear.  At  length  he  returned,  looking 
slightly  crestfallen. 

"  Nawthin'  at  all  but  bear,"  he  announced 
in  an  injured  voice.  "  But  that  bear  seems  to 
have  been  in  a  bit  of  a  hurry,  as  if  he  was 
gittin'  out  o'  somebody's  way  —  Black  Dan's 
way,  it's  dollars  to  doughnuts.  But  where 
was  Black  Dan,  that's  what  I  want  to  know?  " 

"  Ef  you  don't  know,  Tug,"  said  MacDon- 
ald,  "  who  kin  know  ?  " 

"  Jim !  "  said  the  Deputy,  rubbing  his  lean 
chin  and  biting  off  a  big  "  chaw  "  of  "  black- 
jack." 

:<  Jim's  sure  some  dawg,"  agreed  MacDon- 
ald.  '  That  was  the  only  fool  thing  I  ever 
know'd  ye  to  do,  Tug  —  sendin'  Jim  after 
Black  Dan  that  way." 

Blackstock  swore,  softly  and  intensely, 
though  he  was  a  man  not  given  to  that  form 
of  self-expression. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  I  used  to  fancy  myself 
quite  a  lot.  But  now  I  begin  to  think  Nipsi- 
waska  County'd  better  be  gittin'  a  noo  Deputy. 
I  ain't  no  manner  o'  good." 

The  men  looked  at  him  in  frank  astonish- 
ment. He  had  never  before  been  seen  in  this 
mood  of  self -depreciation. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  99 

"  Aw,  shucks,"  exclaimed  Long  Jackson 
presently,  "  there  ain't  a  man  from  here  to  the 
St.  Lawrence  as  kin  tech  ye,  an'  ye  know  it, 
Tug.  Quit  yer  jollyin'  now.  I  believe  ye've 
got  somethin'  up  yer  sleeve,  only  ye  won't  say 
so." 

At  this  expression  of  unbounded  confidence 
Blackstock  braced  up  visibly. 

'''  Well,  boys,  there's  one  thing  I  kin  do," 
said  he.  :<  I'm  goin'  back  to  git  Jim,  ef  I  hev 
to  fetch  him  in  a  wheelbarrow.  We'll  find  out 
what  he  thinks  o'  the  situation.  I'll  take 
Saunders  an'  Big  Andy  with  me.  You,  Long, 
an'  Mac,  you  stop  on  here  an'  lay  low  an'  see 
what  turns  up.  But  don't  go  mussin'  up  the 
trails." 

II 

Jim  proved  to  be  so  far  recovered  that  he 
was  able  to  hobble  about  a  little  on  three  legs, 
the  fourth  being  skilfully  bandaged  so  that  he 
could  not  put  his  foot  to  the  ground.  It  was 
obvious,  however,  that  he  could  not  make  a 
journey  through  the  woods  and  be  any  use 
whatever  at  the  end  of  it.  Blackstock,  there- 
fore, knocked  together  a  handy  litter  for  his 
benefit.  And  with  very  ill  grace  Jim  sub- 
mitted to  being  borne  upon  it. 


100    JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

Some  twenty  paces  from  that  solitary  boot- 
print  which  marked  the  end  of  Black  Dan's 
trail,  Jim  was  set  free  from  his  litter  and  his 
attention  directed  to  a  bruised  tuft  of  moss. 

"  Seek  him,"  said  Blackstock. 

The  dog  gave  one  sniff,  and  then  with  a 
growl  of  anger  the  hair  lifted  along  his  back, 
and  he  limped  forward  hurriedly. 

"  He's  got  it  in  for  Black  Dan  now,"  re- 
marked MacDonald.  And  the  whole  party 
followed  with  hopeful  expectation,  so  great 
was  their  faith  in  Jim's  sagacity. 

The  dog,  in  his  haste,  overshot  the  end  of 
the  trail.  He  stopped  abruptly,  whined, 
sniffed  about,  and  came  back  to  the  deep  boot- 
print.  All  about  it  he  circled,  whimpering 
with  impatience,  but  never  going  more  than  a 
dozen  feet  away  from  it.  Then  he  returned, 
sniffed  long  and  earnestly,  and  stood  over  it 
with  drooping  tail,  evidently  quite  nonplussed. 

"  He  don't  appear  to  make  no  more  of  it 
than  you  did,  Tug,"  said  Long  Jackson,  much 
disappointed. 

"  Oh,  give  him  time,  Long,"  retorted  Black- 
stock.  Then 

"  Seek  him !  Seek  him,  good  boy,"  he  re- 
peated, waving  Jim  to  the  front. 

Running   with   amazing   briskness    on    his 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  101 

three  sound  legs,  the  dog  began  to  quarter  the 
undergrowth  in  ever-widening  half-circles, 
while  the  men  stood  waiting  and  watching. 
At  last,  at  a  distance  of  several  hundred  yards, 
he  gave  a  yelp  and  a  growl,  and  sprang  for- 
ward. 

"  Got  it !  "  exclaimed  Big  Andy. 

"  Guess  it's  only  the  trail  o'  that  there  b'ar 
he's  struck,"  suggested  Jackson  pessimis- 
tically. 

"  Jim,  stop !  "  ordered  Blackstock.  And  the 
dog  stood  rigid  in  his  tracks  while  Blackstock 
hastened  forward  to  see  what  he  had  found. 

"  Sure  enough.  It's  only  the  bear,"  cried 
Blackstock,  investigating  the  great  footprint 
over  which  Jim  was  standing.  "  Come  along 
back  here,  Jim,  an'  don't  go  foolin'  away  yer 
time  over  a  bear,  jest  now." 

The  dog  sniffed  at  the  trail,  gave  another 
hostile  growl,  and  reluctantly  followed  his 
master  back.  Blackstock  made  him  smell  the 
boot-print  again.  Then  he  said  with  em- 
phasis, "  Black  Dan,  Jim,  it's  Black  Dan  we're 
wantin'.  Seek  him,  boy.  Fetch  him." 

Jim  started  off  on  the  same  manoeuvres  as 
before,  and  at  the  same  point  as  before  he 
again  gave  a  growl  and  a  yelp  and  bounded 
forward. 


102    JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  Jim"  shouted  the  Deputy  angrily,  "  come 
back  here." 

The  dog  came  limping  back,  looking  puzzled. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  foolin'  ?  "  went 
on  his  master  severely.  "  What's  bears  to 
you?  Smell  that!"  and  he  pointed  again  to 
the  boot-print.  "  It's  Black  Dan  you're  after." 

Jim  hung  upon  his  words,  but  looked  hope- 
lessly at  sea  as  to  his  meaning.  He  turned 
and  gazed  wistfully  in  the  direction  of  the 
bear's  trail.  He  seemed  on  the  point  of  start- 
ing out  for  it  again,  but  the  tone  of  Black- 
stock's  rebuke  withheld  him.  Finally,  he  sat 
down  upon  his  dejected  tail  and  stared  upwards 
into  a  great  tree,  one  of  whose  lower  branches 
stretched  directly  over  his  head. 

Blackstock  followed  his  gaze.  The  tree  was 
an  ancient  rock  maple,  its  branches  large  but 
comparatively  few  in  number.  Blackstock 
could  see  clear  to  its  top.  It  was  obvious  that 
the  tree  could  afford  no  hiding-place  to  any- 
thing larger  than  a  wild-cat.  Nevertheless, 
as  Blackstock  studied  it,  a  gleam  of  sudden 
insight  passed  over  his  face. 

"Jim  'pears  to  think  Black  Dan's  gone  to 
Heaven,"  remarked  Saunders  drily. 

'  Ye  can't  always  tell  what  Jim's  thinkin'," 
retorted  Blackstock.     "  But  I'll  bet  it's  a  clever 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  103 

idea  he's  got  in  his  black  head,  whatever  it  is." 

He  scanned  the  tree  anew  and  the  other 
trees  nearest  whose  branches  interlaced  with 
it.  Then,  with  a  sharp  "  Come  on,  Jim,"  he 
started  towards  the  knoll,  eyeing  the  branches 
overhead  as  he  went.  The  rest  of  the  party 
followed  at  a  discreet  distance. 

Crippled  as  he  was,  Jim  could  not  climb  the 
steep  face  of  the  knoll,  but  his  master  helped 
him  up.  The  instant  he  entered  the  cave  he 
growled  savagely,  and  once  more  the  stiff  hair 
rose  along  his  back.  Blackstock  watched  in 
silence  for  a  moment.  He  had  never  before 
noticed,  on  Jim's  part,  any  special  hostility 
toward  bears,  whom  he  was  quite  accustomed 
to  trailing.  He  glanced  up  at  the  big  branch 
that  overhung  the  entrance,  and  conviction 
settled  on  his  face.  Then  he  whispered, 
sharply,  "  Seek  him,  Jim."  And  Jim  set  off  at 
once,  as  fast  as  he  could  limp,  along  the  trail 
of  the  bear. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  called  Blackstock  to  his 
posse.  "  Ef  we  can't  find  Black  Dan  we  may 
as  well  hev  a  little  bear-hunt  to  fill  in  the  time. 
Jim  appears  to  hev  a  partic'lar  grudge  agin 
that  bear." 

The  men  closed  up  eagerly,  expecting  to  find 
that  Blackstock,  with  Jim's  help,  had  at  last 


104    JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

discovered  some  real  signs  of  Black  Dan. 
When  they  saw  that  there  was  still  nothing 
more  than  that  old  bear's  trail,  which  they  had 
already  examined,  Long  Jackson  began  to 
grumble. 

"  We  kin  hunt  bear  any  day,"  he  growled. 

"  I  guess  Tug  ain't  no  keener  after  bear  this 
day  than  you  be,"  commented  MacDonald. 
"  He's  got  somethin'  up  his  sleeve,  you  see ! " 

"  Mebbe  it's  a  tame  b'ar,  a  trained  b'ar,  an' 
Black  Dan's  a-ridin'  him  horseback,"  sug- 
gested Big  Andy. 

Blackstock,  who  was  close  at  Jim's  heels,  a 
few  paces  ahead  of  the  rest,  turned  with  one 
of  his  rare,  ruminative  laughs. 

"  That's  quite  an  idea  of  yours,  Andy,"  he 
remarked,  stooping  to  examine  one  of  those 
great  clawed  footprints  in  a  patch  of  soft  soil. 

"  But  even  trained  b'ar  hain't  got  wings," 
commented  MacDonald  again.  "An'  there's 
a  good  three  hundred  yards  atween  the  spot 
where  Black  Dan's  trail  peters  out  an'  the 
nearest  b'ar  track.  I  guess  yer  interestin'  hi- 
potheesis  don't  quite  fill  the  bill  —  eh,  Andy?  " 

"Anyways,"  protested  the  big  Oromocto 
man,  "ye'll  all  notice  one  thing  queer  about 
this  here  b'ar  track.  It  goes  straight.  Mostly 
a  b'ar  will  go  wanderin'  off  this  way  an'  that, 


105 

to  nose  at  an  old  root,  er  grub  up  a  bed  o'  toad- 
stools. But  this  b'ar  keeps  right  on,  as  ef  he 
had  important  business  somewhere  straight 
ahead.  That's  just  the  way  he'd  go  ef  some 
one  was  a-ridin'  him  horseback." 

Andy  had  advanced  his  proposition  as  a  joke, 
but  now  he  was  inclined  to  take  it  seriously  and 
to  defend  it  with  warmth. 

"  Well,"  said  Long  Jackson,  "  we'll  all  chip 
in,  when  we  git  our  money  back,  an'  buy  ye  a 
bear,  Andy,  an'  ye  shall  ride  it  up  every  day 
from  the  mills  to  the  post-office.  It'll  save  ye 
quite  a  few  minutes  in  gittin'  to  the  post-office. 
It  don't  matter  about  yer  gittin'  away." 

The  big  Oromocto  lad  blushed,  but  laughed 
good-naturedly.  He  was  so  much  in  love  with 
the  little  widow  who  kept  the  post-office  that 
nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to  be  teased 
about  her. 

For  the  Deputy's  trained  eyes,  as  for  Jim's 
trained  nose,  that  bear-track  was  an  easy  one 
to  follow.  Nevertheless,  progress  was  slow, 
for  Blackstock  would  halt  from  time  to  time 
to  interrogate  some  claw-print  with  special 
minuteness,  and  from  time  to  time  Jim  would 
stop  to  lie  down  and  lick  gingerly  at  his  band- 
age, tormented  by  the  aching  of  his  wound. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  level  shad- 


106    JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

ows  were  black  upon  the  trail  and  the  trailing 
had  come  to  depend  entirely  on  Jim's  nose, 
Blackstock  called  a  halt  on  the  banks  of  a  small 
brook  and  all  sat  down  to  eat  their  bread  and 
cheese.  Then  they  sprawled  about,  smoking, 
for  the  Deputy,  apparently  regarding  the  chase 
as  a  long  one,  was  now  in  no  great  hurry.  Jim 
lay  on  the  wet  sand,  close  to  the  brook's  edge, 
while  Blackstock,  scooping  up  the  water  in 
double  handfuls,  let  it  fall  in  an  icy  stream  on 
the  dog's  bandaged  leg. 

"  Hev  ye  got  any  reel  idee  to  come  an'  go  on, 
Tug?  "  demanded  Long  Jackson  at  last,  blow- 
ing a  long,  slow  jet  of  smoke  from  his  lips,  and 
watching  it  spiral  upwards  across  a  bar  of  light 
just  over  his  head. 

"  I  hev,"  said  Blackstock. 

"  An'  air  ye  sure  it's  a  good  one  —  good 
enough  to  drag  us  'way  out  here  on  ?  "  per- 
sisted Jackson. 

"  I'm  bankin'  on  it,"  answered  Blackstock. 

"  An'  so's  Jim,  I'm  thinkin',"  suggested  Mac- 
Donald,  tentatively. 

"Jim's  idee  an'  mine  ain't  the  same,  ex- 
ackly,"  vouchsafed  Blackstock,  after  a  pause, 
"  but  I  guess  they'll  come  to  the  same  thing  in 
the  end.  They're  fittin'  in  with  each  other 
fine,  so  fur !  " 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  107 

"  What'll  ye  bet  that  ye're  not  mistaken,  the 
both  o'  yez?  "  demanded  Jackson. 

'  Yer  wages  fur  the  whole  summer ! "  an- 
swered Blackstock  promptly. 

Long  looked  satisfied.  He  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  proceeded  to  refill  it. 

"  Oh,  ef  ye're  so  sure  as  that,  Tug,"  he 
drawled,  "  I  guess  I  ain't  takin'  any  this  time." 

For  a  couple  of  hours  after  sunset  the  party 
continued  to  follow  the  trail,  depending  now 
entirely  upon  Jim's  leadership.  The  dog,  re- 
vived by  his  rest  and  his  master's  cold-water 
treatment,  limped  forward  at  a  good  pace, 
growling  from  time  to  time  as  a  fresh  pang  in 
his  wound  reminded  him  anew  of  his  enemy. 

"  How  Jim  'pears  to  hate  that  bear ! "  re- 
marked Big  Andy  once. 

"  He  does  that! "  agreed  Blackstock.  "  An' 
he's  goin'  to  git  his  own  back,  too,  I'm  thinkin', 
afore  long." 

Presently  the  moon  rose  round  and  yellow 
through  the  tree-tops,  and  the  going  became 
less  laborious.  Jim  seemed  untiring  now.  He 
pressed  on  so  eagerly  that  Blackstock  concluded 
the  object  of  his  vindictive  pursuit,  whatever 
it  was,  must  be  now  not  far  ahead. 

Another  hour,  and  the  party  came  out  sud- 
denly upon  the  bank  of  a  small  pond.  Jim, 


108    JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

his  nose  to  earth,  started  to  lead  the  way 
around  it,  towards  the  left.  But  Blackstock 
stopped  him,  and  halted  his  party  in  the  dense 
shadows. 

The  opposite  shore  was  in  the  full  glare  of 
the  moonlight.  There,  close  to  the  water's 
edge,  stood  a  little  log  hut,  every  detail  of  it 
standing  out  as  clearly  as  in  daylight.  It  was 
obviously  old,  but  the  roof  had  been  repaired 
with  new  bark  and  poles  and  the  door  was  shut, 
instead  of  sagging  half  open  on  broken  hinges 
after  the  fashion  of  the  doors  of  deserted 
cabins. 

Blackstock  slipped  a  leash  from  his  pocket 
and  clipped  it  onto  Jim's  collar. 

"  I'm  thinkin',  boys,  we'll  git  some  informa- 
tion yonder  about  that  bear,  ef  we  go  the  right 
way  about  inquirin'.  Now,  Saunders,  you  go 
round  the  pond  to  the  right  and  steal  up  along- 
shore, through  the  bushes,  to  within  forty 
paces  of  the  hut.  You,  Mac,  an'  Big  Andy, 
you  two  go  round  same  way,  but  git  well  back 
into  the  timber,  and  come  up  behind  the  hut  to 
within  about  the  same  distance.  There'll  be 
a  winder  on  that  side,  likely. 

'  When  ye' re  in  position  give  the  call  o'  the 
big  horned  owl,  not  too  loud.  An'  when  I 
answer  with  the  same  call  twice,  then  close  in. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  109 

But  keep  a  good-sized  tree  atween  you  an'  the 
winder,  for  ye  never  know  what  a  bear  kin  do 
when  he's  trained.  I'll  bet  Big  Andy's  seen 
bears  that  could  shoulder  a  gun  like  a  man! 
So  look  out  for  yourselves.  Long  an'  Jim  an' 
me,  we'll  follow  the  trail  o'  the  bear  right  round 
this  end  o'  the  pond  —  an'  ef  I'm  not  mistaken 
it'll  lead  us  right  up  to  the  door  o'  that  there 
hut.  Some  bears  hev  a  taste  in  regard  to 
where  they  sleep." 

As  noiselessly  as  shadows  the  party  melted 
away  in  opposite  directions. 

The  pond  lay  smooth  as  glass  under  the 
flooding  moonlight,  reflecting  a  pale  star  or 
two  where  the  moon-path  grudgingly  gave  it 
space. 

After  some  fifteen  minutes  a  lazy,  muffled 
hooting  floated  across  the  pond.  Five  min- 
utes later  the  same  call,  the  very  voice  of  the 
wilderness  at  midnight,  came  from  the  deep 
of  the  woods  behind  the  hut. 

Blackstock,  with  Jackson  close  behind  him 
and  Jim  pulling  eagerly  on  the  leash,  was  now 
within  twenty  yards  of  the  hut  door,  but  hid- 
den behind  a  thick  young  fir  tree.  He  breathed 
the  call  of  the  horned  owl  —  a  mellow,  musical 
call,  which  nevertheless  brings  terror  to  all  the 
small  creatures  of  the  wilderness  —  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  repeated  it  softly. 


110    JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

He  waited  for  a  couple  of  minutes  motion- 
less. His  keen  ears  caught  the  snapping  of  a 
twig  close  behind  the  hut. 

"  Big  Andy's  big  feet  that  time,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself.  "  That  boy'll  never  be  much 
good  on  the  trail." 

Then,  leaving  Jim  to  the  care  of  Jackson,  he 
slipped  forward  to  another  and  bigger  tree  not 
more  than  a  dozen  paces  from  the  cabin. 
Standing  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  trunk,  and 
drawing  his  revolver,  he  called  sharply  as  a 
gun-shot  —  "  Dan  Black." 

Instantly  there  was  a  thud  within  the  hut  as 
of  some  one  leaping  from  a  bunk. 

"Dan  Black,"  repeated  the  Deputy,  "the 
game's  up.  I've  got  ye  surrounded.  Will  ye 
come  out  quietly  an'  give  yerself  up,  or  do  ye 
want  trouble  ?  " 

'Waal,  no,  I  guess  I  don't  want  no  more 
trouble,"  drawled  a  cool  voice  from  within  the 
hut.  "  I  guess  I've  got  enough  o'  my  own 
already.  I'll  come  out,  Tug." 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Black  Dan, 
with  his  hands  held  up,  stalked  forth  into  the 
moonlight. 

With  a  roar  Jim  sprang  out  from  behind 
the  fir  tree,  dragging  Long  Jackson  with  him 
by  the  sudden  violence  of  his  rush. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  111 

"Down,  Jim,  down!"  ordered  Blackstock. 
"  Lay  down  an'  shut  up."  And  Jim,  grum- 
bling in  his  throat,  allowed  Jackson  to  pull  him 
back  by  the  collar. 

Blackstock  advanced  and  clicked  the  hand- 
cuffs on  to  Black  Dan's  wrists.  Then  he  took 
the  revolver  and  knife  from  the  prisoner's  belt, 
and  motioned  him  back  into  the  hut. 

"  Bein'  pretty  late  now,"  said  Blackstock, 
"  I  guess  we'll  accept  yer  hospitality  for  the 
rest  o'  the  night." 

"  Right  ye  are,  Tug,"  assented  Dan.  "  Ye'll 
find  tea  an'  merlasses,  an'  a  bite  o'  bacon  in 
the  cupboard  yonder." 

As  the  rest  of  the  party  came  in  Black  Dan 
nodded  to  them  cordially,  a  greeting  which  they 
returned  with  more  or  less  sheepish  grins. 

"  Excuse  me  ef  I  don't  shake  hands  with  ye, 
boys,"  said  he,  "  but  Tug  here  says  the  state 
o'  me  health  makes  it  bad  for  me  to  use  me 
arms."  And  he  held  up  the  handcuffs. 

"  No  apologies  needed,"  said  MacDonald. 

Last  of  all  came  in  Long  Jackson,  with  Jim. 
Blackstock  slipped  the  leash,  and  the  dog  lay 
down  in  a  corner,  as  far  from  the  prisoner  as 
he  could  get. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  whole  party  were  sit- 
ting about  the  tiny  stove,  drinking  boiled  tea 


112    JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

and  munching  crackers  and  molasses  —  the 
prisoner  joining  in  the  feast  as  well  as  his 
manacled  hands  would  permit.  At  length, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  cracker,  the  Deputy 
remarked: 

"  That  was  clever  of  ye,  Dan  —  durn' 
clever.  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  ye." 

"  Not  half  so  clever  as  you  seein'  through 
it  the  way  you  did,  Tug,"  responded  the  pris- 
oner handsomely. 

"  But  darned  ef  /  see  through  it  now,"  pro- 
tested Big  Andy  in  a  plaintive  voice.  "  It's 
just  about  as  clear  as  mud  to  me.  Where's 
your  wings,  Dan?  An'  where  in  tarnation  is 
thatb'ar?" 

The  prisoner  laughed  triumphantly.  Long 
Jackson  and  the  others  looked  relieved,  the 
Oromocto  man  having  propounded  the  ques- 
tion which  they  had  been  ashamed  to  ask. 

"  It's  jest  this  way,"  explained  Blackstock. 
:<  When  we'd  puzzled  Jim  yonder  —  an'  he  was 
puzzled  at  us  bein'  such  fools  —  ye'll  recollect 
he  sat  down  on  his  tail  by  that  boot-print,  an' 
tried  to  work  out  what  we  wanted  of  him.  I 
was  tellin'  him  to  seek  Black  Dan,  an'  yet  I 
was  callin'  him  back  off  that  there  bear-track. 
He  could  smell  Black  Dan  in  the  bear-track, 
but  we  couldn't.  So  we  was  doin'  the  best  we 
could  to  mix  him  up. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  BEAR  113 

"  Well,  he  looked  up  into  the  big  maple  over- 
head. Then  I  saw  where  Black  Dan  had  gone 
to.  He'd  jumped  (that's  why  the  bootprint 
was  so  heavy),  an'  caught  that  there  branch, 
an'  swung  himself  up  into  the  tree.  Then  he 
worked  his  way  along  from  tree  to  tree  till  he 
come  to  the  cave.  I  saw  by  the  way  Jim  took 
on  in  the  cave  that  Black  Dan  had  been  there 
all  right.  For  Jim  hain't  got  no  special  grudge 
agin  bear.  Says  I  to  myself,  ef  Jim  smells 
Black  Dan  in  that  bear  trail,  then  Black  Dan 
must  be  in  it,  that's  all ! 

"  Then  it  comes  over  me  that  I'd  once  seen  a 
big  bear-skin  in  Dan's  room  at  the  Mills,  an' 
as  the  picture  of  it  come  up  agin  in  my  mind, 
I  noticed  how  the  fore-paws  and  legs  of  it  were 
missin'.  With  that  I  looked  agin  at  the  trail, 
as  we  went  along,  Jim  an'  me.  An'  sure 
enough,  in  all  them  tracks  there  wasn't  one 
print  of  a  hind-paw.  They  were  all  fore- 
paws.  Smart,  very  smart  o'  Dan,  says  I  to 
myself.  Let's  see  them  ingenious  socks  o' 
yours,  Dan." 

"  They're  in  the  top  bunk  yonder,"  said 
Black  Dan,  with  a  weary  air.  "  An'  my  belt 
and  pouch,  containin'  the  other  stuff,  that's  all 
in  the  bunk,  too.  I  may's  well  save  ye  the 
trouble  o'  lookin'  for  it,  as  ye'd  find  it  anyways. 


114    JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

I  was  sure  ye'd  never  succeed  in  trackin'  me 
down,  so  I  didn't  bother  to  hide  it.  An'  I  see 
now  ye  wouldn't  'a'  got  me,  Tug,  ef  it  hadn't 
'a'  been  fer  Jim.  That's  where  I  made  the  mis- 
take o'  my  life,  not  stoppin'  to  make  sure  I'd 
done  Jim  up." 

"  No,  Dan,"  said  Blackstock,  "  ye're  wrong 
there.  Ef  you'd  done  Jim  up  I'd  have  caught 
ye  jest  the  same,  in  the  long  run,  fer  I'd  never 
have  quit  the  trail  till  I  did  git  ye.  An'  when 
I  got  ye  —  well,  I'd  hev  forgot  myself,  mebbe, 
an'  only  remembered  that  ye'd  killed  my  best 
friend.  Ef  ye'd  had  as  many  lives  as  a  cat, 
Dan,  they  wouldn't  hev  been  enough  to  pay 
fer  that  dawg." 


V.    THE  FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS 


WHEN  pretty  Mary  Farrell  came  to 
Brine's  Rip  and  set  up  a  modest  dress- 
maker's shop  quite  close  to  the  Mills  (she  said 
she  loved  the  sound  of  the  saws),  all  the  unat- 
tached males  of  the  village,  to  say  nothing  of 
too  many  of  the  attached  ones,  fell  instant  vic- 
tims to  her  charms.  They  were  her  slaves 
from  the  first  lifting  of  her  long  lashes  in  their 
direction. 

Tug  Blackstock,  the  Deputy  Sheriff,  to  be 
sure,  did  not  capitulate  quite  so  promptly  as 
the  rest.  Mary  had  to  flash  her  dark  blue 
eyes  upon  him  at  least  twice,  dropping  them 
again  with  shy  admiration.  Then  he  was  at 
her  feet  —  which  was  a  pleasant  place  to  be, 
seeing  that  those  same  small  feet  were  shod 
with  a  neatness  which  was  a  perpetual  reproach 
to  the  untidy  sawdust  strewn  roadways  of 
Brine's  Rip. 

Even  Big  Andy,  the  boyish  young  giant 
from  the  Oromocto,  wavered  for  a  few  hours 

"5 


116      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

in  his  allegiance  to  the  postmistress.  But 
Mary  was  much  too  tactful  to  draw  upon  her 
pretty  shoulders  the  hostility  of  such  a  power 
as  the  postmistress,  and  Big  Andy's  enthusiasm 
was  cold-douched  in  its  first  glow. 

As  for  the  womenfolk  of  Brine's  Rip,  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  they  would  agree  any 
too  cordially  with  the  men  on  the  subject  of 
Mary  Farrell. 

But  one  instance  of  Mary's  tact  made  even 
the  most  irreconcilable  of  her  own  sex  sheath 
their  claws  in  dealing  with  her.  She  had  come 
from  Harner's  Bend.  The  Mills  at  Harner's 
Bend  were  anathema  to  Brine's  Rip  Mills.  A 
keen  trade  rivalry  had  grown,  fed  by  a  series 
of  petty  but  exasperating  incidents,  into  a  hos- 
tility that  blazed  out  on  the  least  occasion. 
And  pretty  Mary  had  come  from  Harner's 
Bend.  Brine's  Rip  did  not  find  it  out  till  Mary's 
spell  had  been  cast  and  secured,  of  course. 
But  the  fact  was  a  bitter  one  to  swallow.  No 
one  else  but  Mary  Farrell  could  have  made 
Brine's  Rip  swallow  it. 

One  day  Big  Andy,  greatly  daring,  and 
secure  in  his  renovated  allegiance  to  the  post- 
mistress, ventured  to  chaff  Mary  about  it. 
She  turned  upon  him,  half  amused  and  half 
indignant. 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          117 

"Well,"  she  demanded,  "isn't  Harner's 
Bend  a  good  place  to  come  away  from?  Do 
you  think  I'd  ought  to  have  stopped  there  ?  Do 
I  look  like  the  kind  of  girl  that  wouldn't  come 
away  from  Harner's  Bend  ?  And  me  a  dress- 
maker? I  just  couldn't  live,  let  alone  make  a 
living,  among  such  a  dowdy  lot  of  women- folk 
as  they've  got  over  there.  It  isn't  dresses  they 
want,  but  oat-sacks,  and  you  wouldn't  know 
the  difference,  either,  when  they'd  got  them 
on." 

The  implication  was  obvious ;  and  the  women 
of  Brine's  Rip  began  to  allow  for  possible  vir- 
tues in  Miss  Farrell.  The  postmistress  de- 
clared there  was  no  harm  in  her,  and  even 
admitted  that  she  might  almost  be  called  good- 
looking  "  if  she  hadn't  such  an  awful  big 
mouth." 

I  have  said  that  all  the  male  folk  of  Brine's 
Rip  had  capitulated  immediately  to  the  sum- 
mons of  Mary  Farrell's  eyes.  But  there  were 
two  notable  exceptions  —  Woolly  Billy  and 
Jim.  Both  Woolly  Billy's  flaxen  mop  of  curls 
and  the  great  curly  black  head  of  Jim,  the  dog, 
had  turned  away  coldly  from  Mary's  first 
advances.  Woolly  Billy  preferred  men  to 
women  anyhow.  And  Jim  was  jealous  of  Tug 
Blackstock's  devotion  to  the  petticoated 
stranger. 


118      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

But  Mary  Farrell  knew  how  to  manage  chil- 
dren and  dogs  as  well  as  men.  She  ignored 
both  Jim  and  Woolly  Billy.  She  did  it  quite 
pointedly,  yet  with  a  gracious  politeness  that 
left  no  room  for  resentment.  Neither  the 
child  nor  the  dog  was  accustomed  to  being  ig- 
nored. Before  long  Mary's  amiable  indiffer- 
ence began  to  make  them  feel  as  if  they  were 
being  left  out  in  the  cold.  They  began  to  think 
they  were  losing  something  because  she  did 
not  notice  them.  Reluctantly  at  first,  but 
by-and-by  with  eagerness,  they  courted  her 
attention.  At  last  they  gained  it.  It  was 
undeniably  pleasant.  From  that  moment  the 
child  and  the  dog  were  at  Mary's  well-shod  and 
self-reliant  little  feet. 

II 

As  summer  wore  on  into  autumn  the  dry 
weather  turned  to  a  veritable  drought,  and  all 
the  streams  ran  lower  and  lower.  Word  came 
early  that  the  mills  at  Harner's  Bend,  over  in 
the  next  valley,  had  been  compelled  to  shut 
down  for  lack  of  logs.  But  Brine's  Rip  ex- 
ulted unkindly.  The  Ottanoonsis,  fed  by  a 
group  of  cold  spring  lakes,  maintained  a  steady 
flow;  there  were  plenty  of  logs,  and  the  mills 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          119 

had  every  prospect  of  working  full  time  all 
through  the  autumn.  Presently  they  began  to 
gather  in  big  orders  which  would  have  gone 
otherwise  to  Harner's  Bend.  Brine's  Rip  not 
only  exulted,  but  took  into  itself  merit.  It 
felt  that  it  must,  on  general  principles,  have 
deserved  well  of  Providence,  for  Providence 
so  obviously  to  take  sides  with  it. 

As  August  drew  to  a  dusty,  choking  end, 
Mary  Farrell  began  to  collect  her  accounts. 
Her  tact  and  sympathy  made  this  easy  for  her, 
and  women  paid  up  civilly  enough  who  had 
never  been  known  to  do  such  a  thing  before, 
unless  at  the  point  of  a  summons.  Mary  said 
she  was  going  to  the  States,  perhaps  as  far  as 
New  York  itself,  to  renew  her  stock  and  study 
up  the  latest  fashions. 

Every  one  was  much  interested.  Woolly 
Billy's  eyes  brimmed  over  at  the  prospect  of 
her  absence,  but  he  was  consoled  by  the  prom- 
ise of  her  speedy  return  with  an  air-gun  and 
also  a  toy  steam-engine  that  would  really  go. 
As  for  Jim,  his  feathery  black  tail  drooped  in 
premonition  of  a  loss,  but  he  could  not  gather 
exactly  what  was  afoot.  He  was  further 
troubled  by  an  unusual  depression  on  the 
part  of  Tug  Blackstock.  The  Deputy  Sheriff 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  zest  in  tracking  down 
evil-doers. 


120      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

It  was  nearing  ten  o'clock  on  a  hot  and  star- 
less night.  Tug  Blackstock,  too  restless  to 
sleep,  wandered  down  to  the  silent  mill  with 
Jim  at  his  heels.  As  he  approached,  Jim  sud- 
denly went  bounding  on  ahead  with  a  yelp  of 
greeting.  He  fawned  upon  a  small,  shadowy 
figure  which  was  seated  on  a  pile  of  deals  close 
to  the  water's  edge.  Tug  Blackstock  hurried 
up. 

"  You  here,  Mary,  all  alone,  at  this  time  o' 
night !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  come  here  often,"  answered  Mary,  mak- 
ing room  for  him  to  sit  beside  her. 

"  I  wish  I'd  known  it  sooner,"  muttered  the 
Deputy. 

"  I  like  to  listen  to  the  rapids,  and  catch 
glimpses  of  the  water  slipping  away  blindly 
in  the  dark,"  said  Mary.  "  It  helps  one  not 
to  think,"  she  added  with  a  faint  catch  in  her 
voice. 

'''  Why  should  you  not  want  to  think, 
Mary  ?  "  protested  Blackstock. 

"  How  dreadfully  dry  everything  is,"  re- 
plied Mary  irrelevantly,  as  if  heading  Black- 
stock  off.  "  What  if  there  should  be  a  fire  at 
the  mill?  Wouldn't  the  whole  village  go,  like 
a  box  of  matches?  People  might  get  caught 
asleep  in  their  beds.  Oughtn't  there  to  be 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          121 

more  than  one  night  watchman  in  such  dry 
weather  as  this?  I've  so  often  heard  of  mills 
catching  fire  —  though  I  don't  see  why  they 
should,  any  more  than  houses." 

"  Mills  most  generally  git  set  afire,"  an- 
swered the  Deputy  grimly.  "  Think  what  it 
would  mean  to  Harner's  Bend  if  these  mills 
should  git  burnt  down  now!  It  would  mean 
thousands  and  thousands  to  them.  But  you're 
dead  right,  Mary,  about  the  danger  to  the 
village.  Only  it  depends  on  the  wind.  This 
time  o'  year,  an'  as  long  as  it  keeps  dry,  what 
wind  there  is  blows  mostly  away  from  the 
houses,  so  sparks  and  brands  would  just  be 
carried  out  over  the  river.  But  if  the  wind 
should  shift  to  the  south'ard,  or  thereabouts, 
yes,  there'd  be  more  watchmen  needed.  I 
s'pose  you're  thinkin'  about  your  shop  while 
ye' re  away?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  about  Woolly  Billy,"  said 
Mary  gravely.  "  What  do  I  care  about  the 
old  shop?  It's  insured,  anyway." 

"  I'll  look  out  for  Woolly  Billy,"  answered 
Blackstock.  "  And  I'll  look  out  for  the  shop, 
whether  you  care  about  it  or  not.  It's  yours, 
and  your  name's  on  the  door,  and  anything  of 
yours,  anything  you've  touched,  an'  wherever 
you've  put  your  little  foot,  that's  something  for 


122      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

me  to  care  about.  I  ain't  no  hand  at  making 
pretty  speeches,  Mary,  or  paying  compliments, 
but  I  tell  you  these  here  old  sawdust  roads  are 
just  wonderful  to  me  now,  because  your  little 
feet  have  walked  on  'em.  Ef  only  I  could 
think  that  you  could  care  —  that  I  had  any- 
thing, was  anything,  Mary,  worth  offering 
you—" 

He  had  taken  her  hand,  and  she  had  yielded 
it  to  him.  He  had  put  his  great  arm  around 
her  shoulders  and  drawn  her  to  him,  —  and  for 
a  moment,  with  a  little  shiver,  she  had  leant 
against  him,  almost  cowered  against  him,  with 
the  air  of  a  frightened  child  craving  protec- 
tion. But  as  he  spoke  on,  in  his  quiet,  strong 
voice,  she  suddenly  tore  herself  away,  sprang 
off  to  the  other  end  of  the  pile  of  deals,  and 
began  to  sob  violently. 

He  followed  her  at  once.  But  she  thrust 
out  both  hands. 

"  Go  away.  Please  don't  come  near  me," 
she  appealed,  somewhat  wildly.  "  You  don't 
understand  —  anything." 

Tug  Blackstock  looked  puzzled.  He  seated 
himself  at  a  distance  of  several  inches,  and 
clasped  his  hands  resolutely  in  his  lap. 

"  Of  course,  I  won't  tech  you,  Mary,"  said 
he,  "  if  you  don't  want  me  to.  I  don't  want 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          123 

to  do  anything  you  don't  want  me  to  —  never, 
Mary.  But  I  sure  don't  understand  what 
you're  crying  for.  Please  don't.  I'm  so  sorry 
I  teched  you,  dear.  But  if  you  knew  how  I 
love  you,  how  I  would  give  my  life  for  you, 
I  think  you'd  forgive  me,  Mary." 

Mary  gave  a  bitter  little  laugh,  and  choked 
her  sobs. 

"  It  isn't  that,  oh  no,  it  isn't  that! "  she 
said.  "I  —  I  liked  it.  There !  "  she  panted. 
Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  faced  him. 
And  in  the  gloom  he  could  see  her  eyes  flaming 
with  some  intense  excitement,  from  a  face 
ghost-white. 

"  But  —  I  won't  let  you  make  me  love 
you,  Tug  Blackstock.  I  won't !  —  I  won't !  I 
won't  let  you  change  all  my  plans,  all  my 
ambitions.  I  won't  give  up  all  I've  worked 
for  and  schemed  for  and  sold  my  very  soul 
for,  just  because  at  last  I've  met  a  real  man. 
Oh,  I'd  soon  spoil  your  life,  no  matter  how 
much  you  love  me.  You'd  soon  find  how  cruel, 
and  hard,  and  selfish  I  am.  An'  I'd  ruin  my 
own  life,  too.  Do  you  think  I  could  settle 
down  to  spend  my  life  in  the  backwoods  ?  Do 
you  think  I  have  no  dreams  beyond  the  spruce 
woods  of  Nipsiwaska  County?  Do  you  think 
you  could  imprison  me  in  Brine's  Rip?  I'd 


124      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

either  kill  your  brave,  clean  soul,  Tug  Black- 
stock,  or  I'd  kill  myself !  " 

Utterly  bewildered  at  this  incomprehensible 
outburst,  Blackstock  could  only  stammer 
lamely : 

"  But  —  I  thought  —  ye  kind  o'  liked  Brine's 
Rip." 

"  Like  it !  "  The  uttermost  of  scorn  was  in 
her  voice.  "  I  hate,  hate,  hate  it !  I  just  live  to 
get  out  into  the  great  world,  where  I  feel  that 
I  belong.  But  I  must  have  money  first.  And 
I'm  going  to  study,  and  I'm  going  to  make 
myself  somebody.  I  wasn't  born  for  this." 
And  she  waved  her  hand  with  a  sweep  that 
took  in  all  the  backwoods  world.  "  I'm  getting 
out  of  it.  It  would  drive  me  mad.  Oh,  I 
sometimes  think  it  has  already  driven  me  half 
mad." 

Her  tense  voice  trailed  off  wearily,  and  she 
sat  down  again  —  this  time  further  away. 

Blackstock  sat  quite  still  for  a  time.  At  last 
he  said  gently: 

"  I  do  understand  ye  now,  Mary." 

"  You  don't,"  interrupted  Mary. 

"  I  felt,  all  along,  I  was  somehow  not  good 
enough  for  you." 

'  You're  a  million  miles  too  good  for  me," 
she  interrupted  again,  energetically. 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          125 

"  But,"  he  went  on  without  heeding  the  pro- 
test, "  I  hoped,  somehow,  that  I  might  be  able 
to  make  you  happy.  An'  that's  what  I  want, 
more'n  anything  else  in  the  world.  All  I  have 
is  at  your  feet,  Mary,  an'  I  could  make  it  more 
in  time.  But  I'm  not  a  big  enough  man  for 
you.  I'm  all  yours  —  an'  always  will  be  — 
but  I  can't  make  myself  no  more  than  I  am." 

"  Yes,  you  could,  Tug  Blackstock,"  she 
cried.  "  Real  men  are  scarce,  in  the  great 
world  and  everywhere.  You  could  make  your- 
self a  master  anywhere  —  if  only  you  would 
tear  yourself  loose  from  here." 

He  sprang  up,  and  his  arms  went  out  as  if 
to  seize  her.  But,  with  an  effort,  he  checked 
himself,  and  dropped  them  stiffly  to  his  side. 

"  I'm  too  old  to  change  my  spots,  Mary," 
said  he.  "  I'm  stamped  for  good  an'  all.  I 
am  some  good  here.  I'd  be  no  good  there. 
An'  I  won't  never  resk  bein'  a  drag  on  yer 
plans." 

"You  could  —  you  could!"  urged  Mary 
almost  desperately. 

But  he  turned  away,  with  his  lips  set  hard, 
not  daring  to  look  at  her. 

"  Ef  ever  ye  git  tired  of  it  all  out  there,  an' 
yer  own  kind  calls  ye  back  —  as  it  will,  bein' 
in  yer  blood  —  I'll  be  waitin'  for  ye,  Mary, 
whatever  happens." 


126      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

He  strode  off  quickly  up  the  shore.  The 
girl  stared  after  him  till  he  was  quite  out  of 
sight,  then  buried  her  face  in  the  fur  of  Jim, 
who  had  willingly  obeyed  a  sign  from  his  mas- 
ter and  remained  at  her  side. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  if  only  you  could  have 
dared,"  she  murmured.  At  last  she  jumped 
up,  with  an  air  of  resolve,  and  wandered  off, 
apparently  aimlessly,  into  the  recesses  of  the 
mill,  with  one  hand  resting  firmly  on  Jim's 
collar. 

Ill 

Two  days  later  Mary  Farrell  left  Brine's 
Rip.  She  hugged  and  kissed  Woolly  Billy 
very  hard  before  she  left,  and  cried  a  little 
with  him,  pretending  to  laugh,  and  she  took 
her  three  big  trunks  with  her,  in  the  long- 
bodied  express  waggon  which  carried  the 
mails,  although  she  said  she  would  not  be  gone 
more  than  a  month  at  the  outside. 

Tug  Blackstock  eyed  those  three  trunks 
with  a  sinking  heart.  His  only  comfort  was 
that  he  had  in  his  pocket  the  key  of  Mary's 
little  shop,  which  she  had  sent  to  him  by  Woolly 
Billy.  When  the  express  waggon  had  rattled 
and  bumped  away  out  of  sight  there  was  a 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          127 

general  feeling  in  Brine's  Rip  that  the  whole 
place  had  gone  flat,  like  stale  beer,  and  the 
saws  did  not  seem  to  make  as  cheerful  a  shriek- 
ing as  before,  and  Black  Saunders,  expert 
runner  of  logs  as  he  was,  fell  in  because  he 
forgot  to  look  where  he  was  going,  and 
knocked  his  head  heavily  in  falling,  and  was 
almost  drowned  before  they  could  fish  him  out. 

"  There's  goin'  to  be  some  bad  luck  comin' 
to  Brine's  Rip  afore  long,"  remarked  Long 
Jackson  in  a  voice  of  deepest  pessimism. 

"  It's  come,  Long,"  said  the  Deputy. 

That  same  day  the  wind  changed,  and  blew 
steadily  from  the  mills  right  across  the  village. 
But  it  brought  no  change  in  the  weather, 
except  a  few  light  showers  that  did  no  more 
than  lay  the  surface  dust.  About  a  week  later 
it  shifted  back  again,  and  blew  steadily  away 
from  the  village  and  straight  across  the  river. 
And  once  more  a  single  night-watchman  was 
regarded  as  sufficient  safeguard  against  fire. 

A  little  before  daybreak  on  the  second  night 
following  this  change  of  wind,  the  watchman 
was  startled  by  a  shrill  scream  and  a  heavy 
splash  from  the  upper  end  of  the  great  pool 
where  the  logs  were  gathered  before  being 
fed  up  in  the  saws.  It  sounded  like  a  woman's 
voice.  As  fast  as  he  could  stumble  over  the 


128      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

intervening  deals  and  rubbish  he  made  his  way 
to  the  spot,  waving  his  lantern  and  calling 
anxiously.  There  was  no  sign  of  any  one  in 
the  water.  As  he  searched  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  ruddy  light  at  one  corner  of  the 
mill. 

He  turned  and  dashed  back,  yelling  "  Fire ! 
Fire ! "  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  A  similar 
ruddy  light  was  spreading  upward  in  two  other 
corners  of  the  mill.  Frantically  he  turned  on 
the  nearest  chemical  extinguisher,  yelling 
madly  all  the  while.  But  he  was  already  too 
late.  The  flames  were  licking  up  the  dry 
wood  with  furious  appetite. 

In  almost  as  little  time  as  it  takes  to  tell  of 
it  the  whole  great  structure  was  ablaze,  with 
all  Brine's  Rip,  in  every  varying  stage  of 
deshabille,  out  gaping  at  it.  The  little  hand- 
fire-engine  worked  heroically,  squirting  a 
futile  stream  upon  the  flames  for  a  while,  and 
then  turning  its  attention  to  the  nearest  houses 
in  order  to  keep  them  drenched. 

"  Thank  God  the  wind's  in  the  right  direc- 
tion," muttered  Zeb  Smith,  the  storekeeper  and 
magistrate.  And  the  pious  ejaculation  was 
echoed  fervently  through  the  crowd. 

In  the  meantime,  Tug  Blackstock,  seeing  that 
there  was  nothing  to  do  in  the  way  of  fighting 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          129 

the  fire  —  the  mill  being  already  devoured  — 
was  interviewing  the  distracted  watchman. 

"  Sure,"  he  agreed,  "  it  was  a  trick  to  git 
you  away  long  enough  for  the  fires  to  git  a 
start.  Somebody  yelled,  an'  chucked  in  a  big 
stick,  that's  all.  An',  o'  course,  you  run  to 
help.  You  couldn't  naturally  do  nothin'  else.  " 

The  watchman  heaved  a  huge  sigh  of  relief. 
If  Blackstock  exonerated  him  from  the  charge 
of  negligence,  other  people  would.  And  his 
heart  had  been  very  heavy  at  being  so  fatally 
fooled. 

"  It's  Harner's  Bend  all  right,  that's  what 
it  is !  "  he  muttered. 

"  Ef  only  we  could  prove  it,"  said  Black- 
stock,  searching  the  damp  ground  about  the 
edges  of  the  pool,  which  was  lighted  now  as 
by  day.  Presently  he  saw  Jim  sniffing  ex- 
citedly at  some  tracks.  He  hurried  over  to 
examine  them.  Jim  looked  up  at  him  and 
wagged  his  tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  So  you've 
found  them,  too!  Interesting,  ain't  they?" 

"What  d'ye  make  o'  that?"  demanded 
Blackstock  of  the  watchman. 

ff  Boy's  tracks,  sure,"  said  the  latter  at  once. 

The  footprints  were  small  and  neat.  They 
were  of  a  double-soled  larrigan,  with  a  low 
heel  of  a  single  welt. 


130      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  None  of  our  boys,"  said  Blackstock,  "  wear 
a  larrigan  like  that,  especially  this  time  o'  year. 
One  could  run  light  in  that  larrigan,  an'  the 
sole's  thick  enough  to  save  the  foot.  An*  it's 
good  for  a  canoe,  too." 

He  rubbed  his  chin,  thinking  hard. 

"  Yesterday,"  said  the  watchman,  "  I  mind 
seem'  a  young  half-breed,  he  looked  like  a  slip 
of  a  lad,  very  dark  complected,  crossin'  the 
road  half-a-mile  up  yonder.  He  was  out  o' 
sight  in  a  second,  like  a  shadder,  but  I  mind 
noticin'  he  had  on  larrigans  —  an'  a  brown 
slouch  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  an'  a  dark  red 
handkerchief  roun'  his  neck.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  these  parts." 

"  That  would  account  for  the  voice,  like  a 
woman's,"  said  Blackstock,  following  the 
tracks  till  they  plunged  through  a  tangle  of 
tall  bush.  "  An'  here's  the  handkerchief,"  he 
added  triumphantly,  grabbing  up  a  dark  red 
thing  that  fluttered  from  a  branch.  "  Har- 
ner's  Bend  knows  somethin'  about  that  boy, 
I'm  thinkin'.  Now,  Bill,  you  go  along  back, 
an'  don't  say  nothin'  about  this,  mind!  Me 
an'  Jim,  we'll  look  into  it.  Tell  old  Mrs.  Amos 
and  Woolly  Billy  not  to  fret.  We'll  be  back 
soon." 

He  slipped  the  leash  into  Jim's  collar,  gave 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          131 

him  the  red  handkerchief  to  smell,  and  said, 
"  Seek  him,  Jim."  And  Jim  set  off  eagerly, 
tugging  at  the  leash,  because  the  trail  was  so 
fresh  and  plain  to  him,  and  he  hated  to  be  held 
back. 

The  trail  led  around  behind  the  village,  and 
back  to  the  river  bank  about  a  mile  below. 
There  it  followed  straight  down  the  shore.  It 
was  evident  to  Blackstock  that  his  quarry 
would  have  a  canoe  in  hiding  some  distance 
further  down.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 
It  was  now  almost  full  daybreak,  and  he  could 
follow  the  trail  by  himself.  After  all,  it  was 
only  a  boy  he  had  to  deal  with.  He  could 
trust  Jim  to  delay  him,  to  hold  him  at  bay.  He 
loosed  the  leash,  and  Jim  bounded  forward  at 
top  speed.  He  himself  followed  at  a  leisurely 
loping  stride. 

As  he  trotted  on,  thinking  of  many  things, 
he  took  out  the  red  handkerchief  and  exam- 
ined it  again.  He  smelt  it  curiously.  His 
nose  was  keen,  like  a  wild  animal's.  As  he 
sniffed,  a  pang  went  through  him,  clutching 
at  his  heart.  He  sniffed  again.  His  long 
stride  shortened.  He  dropped  into  a  walk. 
He  thought  over,  word  by  word,  his  conversa- 
tion with  Mary  that  night  beside  the  mill.  His 
face  went  grey.  After  a  brief  struggle  he 


132      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

shouted  to  Jim,  trying  to  call  him  back.  But 
the  eager  dog  was  already  far  beyond  hearing. 
Then  Blackstock  broke  into  a  desperate  run, 
shouting  from  time  to  time.  He  thought  of 
Jim's  ferocity  when  on  the  trail. 

Meanwhile,  the  figure  of  a  slim  boy,  very 
light  of  foot,  was  speeding  far  down  the  river 
bank,  clutching  a  brown  slouch  hat  in  one  hand 
as  he  ran.  He  had  an  astonishing  crop  of  hair, 
wound  in  tight  coils  about  his  head.  He  was 
panting  heavily,  and  seemed  nearly  spent.  At 
last  he  halted,  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief, 
pressed  his  hands  to  his  heart,  and  plunged 
into  a  clump  of  bushes.  In  the  depth  of  the 
bushes  lay  a  small  birch-bark  canoe,  carefully 
concealed.  He  tugged  at  it,  but  for  the  mo- 
ment he  was  too  weary  to  lift  it.  He  flung 
himself  down  beside  it  to  take  breath. 

In  the  silence,  his  ears  caught  the  sound  of 
light  feet  padding  down  the  shore.  He 
jumped  up,  and  peered  through  the  bushes. 
A  big  black  dog  was  galloping  on  his  trail. 
He  drew  a  long  knife,  and  his  mouth  set  itself 
so  hard  that  the  lips  went  white.  The  dog 
reached  the  edge  of  the  bushes.  The  youth 
slipped  behind  the  canoe. 

"Jim,"  said  he  softly.  The  dog  whined, 
wagged  his  tail,  and  plunged  in  through  the 


FIRE  AT  BRINE'S  RIP  MILLS          133 

bushes.  The  youth's  stern  lips  relaxed.  He 
slipped  the  knife  back  into  its  sheath,  and 
fondled  the  dog,  which  was  fawning  upon  him 
eagerly. 

'  You'd  never  go  back  on  me,  would  you, 
Jim,  no  matter  what  I'd  done  ?  "  said  he,  in  a 
gentle  voice.  Then,  with  an  expert  twist  of 
his  lithe  young  body,  he  shouldered  the  canoe 
and  bore  it  down  to  the  water's  edge.  One  of 
his  swarthy  hands  had  suddenly  grown  much 
whiter,  where  Jim  had  been  licking  it. 

Before  stepping  into  the  canoe,  this  peculiar 
youth  took  a  scrap  of  paper  from  his  shirt 
pocket,  and  an  envelope.  He  scribbled  some- 
thing, sealed  it  up,  addressed  the  envelope, 
marked  it  "  private,"  and  gave  it  to  Jim,  who 
took  it  in  his  mouth. 

"  Give  that  to  Tug  Blackstock,"  ordered  the 
youth  clearly.  Then  he  kissed  the  top  of  Jim's 
black  head,  pushed  off,  and  paddled  away 
swiftly  down  river.  Jim,  proud  of  his  com- 
mission, set  off  up  the  shore  at  a  gallop  to 
meet  his  master. 

Half-a-mile  back  he  met  him.  Blackstock 
snatched  the  letter  from  Jim's  mouth,  prais- 
ing Heaven  that  the  dog  had  for  once 
failed  in  his  duty.  He  tore  open  the  letter. 
It  said: 


134      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

Yes,  I  did  it.  I  had  to  do  it.  But  you  could  have 
saved  me,  if  you'd  dared  —  for  I  do  love  you,  Tug 
Blackstock. —  MARY. 

A  month  later,  a  parcel  came  from  New 
York  for  Woolly  Billy,  containing  an  air-gun, 
and  a  toy  steam-engine  that  would  really  go. 
But  it  contained  no  address.  And  Brine's  Rip 
said  that  Tug  Blackstock  had  been  bested  for 
once,  because  he  never  succeeded  in  finding  out 
who  burnt  down  the  mills. 


VI.  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING 
BEAR 


ONE  day  there  arrived  at  Brine's  Rip  Mills, 
driving  in  a  smart  trap  which  looked 
peculiarly  unsuited  to  the  rough  backwoods 
roads,  an  imposing  gentleman  who  wore  a 
dark  green  Homburg  hat,  heavy,  tan,  gaunt- 
leted  gloves,  immaculate  linen,  shining  boots, 
and  a  well-fitting  morning  suit  of  dark  pepper- 
and-salt,  protected  from  the  contaminations  of 
travel  by  a  long,  fawn-coloured  dust-coat.  He 
also  wore  a  monocle  so  securely  screwed  into 
his  left  eye  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  born 
there. 

His  red  and  black  wheels  labouring  noise- 
lessly through  the  sawdust  of  the  village  road, 
he  drove  up  to  the  front  door  of  the  barn-like 
wooden  structure,  which  staggered  under  the 
name,  in  huge  letters,  of  the  CONTINENTAL 
HOTEL.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  to  hold 
the  horse,  so  he  sat  in  the  trap  and  waited,  with 
severe  impatience,  for  some  one  to  come  out 
to  him. 

135 


136      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

In  a  few  moments  the  landlord  strolled  forth 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  chewing  tobacco,  and 
inquired  casually  what  he  could  do  for  his 
visitor. 

"  I'm  looking  for  Mr.  Blackstock  —  Mr.  J. 
T.  Blackstock,"  said  the  stranger  with  lofty 
politeness.  "  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  direct 
me  to  him  ?  " 

The  landlord  spat  thoughtfully  into  the  saw- 
dust, to  show  that  he  was  not  unduly  impressed 
by  the  stranger's  appearance. 

"You'll  find  him  down  to  the  furder  end  of 
the  cross  street  yonder,"  he  answered,  point- 
ing with  his  thumb.  "  Last  house  towards  the 
river.  Lives  with  old  Mrs.  Amos  —  him  an' 
Woolly  Billy." 

The  stranger  found  it  without  difficulty,  and 
halted  his  trap  in  front  of  the  door.  Before 
he  could  alight,  a  tall,  rather  gaunt  woodsman, 
with  kind  but  piercing  eyes  and  brows  knitted 
in  an  habitual  concentration,  appeared  in  the 
doorway  and  gave  him  courteous  greeting. 

"  Mr.  Blackstock,  I  presume  ?  The  Deputy 
Sheriff,  I  should  say,"  returned  the  stranger 
with  extreme  affability,  descending  from  the 
trap. 

'  The  same,"  assented  Blackstock,  stepping 
forward  to  hitch  the  horse  to  a  fence  post.     A 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     137 

big  black  dog  came  from  the  house  and, 
ignoring  the  resplendent  stranger,  went  up  to 
Blackstock's  side  to  superintend  the  hitching. 
A  slender  little  boy,  with  big  china-blue  eyes 
and  a  shock  of  pale,  flaxen  curls,  followed  the 
dog  from  the  house  and  stopped  to  stare  at  the 
visitor. 

The  latter  swept  the  child  with  a  glance  of 
scrutiny,  swift  and  intent,  then  turned  to  his 
host. 

"  I  am  extraordinarily  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Blackstock,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"If,  as  I  surmise,  the  name  of  this  little  boy 
here  is  Master  George  Harold  Manners  Wat- 
son, then  I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  which 
nothing  can  repay.  I  hear  that  you  not  only 
saved  his  life,  but  have  been  as  a  father  to 
him,  ever  since  the  death  of  his  own  unhappy 
father." 

Blackstock's  heart  contracted.  He  accepted 
the  stranger's  hand  cordially  enough,  but  was 
in  no  hurry  to  reply.  At  last  he  said  slowly: 

"  Yes,  Stranger,  you've  got  Woolly  Billy's 
reel  name  all  O.  K.  But  why  should  you  thank 
me  ?  Whatever  I've  done,  it's  been  for  Woolly 
Billy's  own  sake  —  ain't  it,  Billy?  " 

For  answer,  Woolly  Billy  snuggled  up 
against  his  side  and  clutched  his  great  brown 


138      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

hand  adoringly,  while  still  keeping  dubious 
eyes  upon  the  stranger. 

The  latter  took  off  his  gloves,  laughing 
amiably. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Blackstock,  I'm  only 
his  uncle,  and  his  only  uncle  at  that.  So  I 
have  a  right  to  thank  you,  and  I  see  by  the  way 
the  child  clings  to  you  how  good  you've  been 
to  him.  My  name  is  J.  Heathington  Johnson, 
of  Heathington  Hall,  Cramley,  Blankshire. 
I'm  his  mother's  brother.  And  I  fear  I  shall 
have  to  tear  him  away  from  you  in  a  great 
hurry,  too." 

"Come  inside,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  Black- 
stock,  "  an'  sit  down.  We  must  talk  this  over 
a  bit.  It  is  kind  o'  sudden,  you  see." 

"  I  don't  want  to  seem  unsympathetic,"  said 
the  visitor  kindly,  "and  I  know  my  little 
nephew  is  going  to  resent  my  carrying  him 
off."  (At  these  words  Woolly  Billy  began  to 
realize  what  was  in  the  air,  and  clung  to  Black- 
stock  with  a  storm  of  frightened  tears. )  "  But 
you  will  understand  that  I  have  to  catch  the 
next  boat  from  New  York  —  and  I  have  a 
thirty-mile  drive  before  me  now  to  the  nearest 
railway  station.  You  know  what  the  roads 
are!  So  I'm  sure  you  won't  think  me  unrea- 
sonable if  I  ask  you  to  get  my  nephew  ready 
as  soon  as  possible." 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     139 

Blackstock  devoted  a  few  precious  moments 
to  quieting  the  child's  sobs  before  replying. 
He  remembered  having  found  out  in  some  way, 
from  some  papers  in  the  drowned  English- 
man's pockets  or  somewhere,  that  the  name  of 
Woolly  Billy's  mother,  before  her  marriage, 
was  not  Johnson,  but  O'Neil.  Of  course  that 
discrepancy,  he  realized,  might  be  easily  ex- 
plained, but  his  quick  suspicions,  sharpened  by 
his  devotion  to  the  child,  were  aroused. 

"  We  are  not  a  rich  family,  by  any  means, 
Mr.  Blackstock,"  continued  the  stranger,  after 
a  pause.  "  But  we  have  enough  to  be  able  to 
reward  handsomely  those  who  have  befriended 
us.  All  possible  expense  that  my  nephew  may 
have  been  to  you,  I  want  to  reimburse  you  for 
at  once.  And  I  wish  also  to  make  you  a  pres- 
ent as  an  expression  of  my  gratitude  —  not,  I 
assure  you,  as  a  payment,"  he  added,  noticing 
that  Blackstock's  face  had  hardened  ominously. 
He  took  out  a  thick  bill-book,  well  stuffed  with 
bank-notes. 

"  Put  away  your  money,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
Blackstock  coldly.  "  I  ain't  taking  any,  thank 
you,  for  what  I  may  have  done  for  Woolly 
Billy.  But  what  I  want  to  know  is,  what 
authority  have  you  to  demand  the  child?  " 

"  I'm  his  uncle,  his  mother's  brother,"  an- 


140      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

swered  the  stranger  sharply,  drawing  himself 
up. 

"  That  may  be,  an'  then  again,  it  mayn't," 
said  Blackstock.  "  Do  you  think  I'm  goin'  to 
hand  over  the  child  to  a  perfect  stranger,  just 
because  he  comes  and  says  he's  the  child's 
uncle  ?  What  proofs  have  you  ?  " 

The  visitor  glared  angrily,  but  restrained 
himself  and  handed  Blackstock  his  card. 

Blackstock  read  it  carefully. 

"  What  does  that  prove  ?  "  he  demanded 
sarcastically.  "  It  might  not  be  your  card ! 
An'  even  if  you  are  '  Mr.  Johnson '  all  right, 
that's  not  proving  that  Mr.  Johnson  is  the 
little  feller's  uncle!  I  want  legal  proof,  that 
would  hold  in  a  court  of  law." 

'  You  insolent  blockhead !  "  exclaimed  the 
visitor.  "  How  dare  you  interfere  between  my 
nephew  and  me?  If  you  don't  hand  him  over 
at  once,  I  will  make  you  smart  for  it.  Come, 
child,  get  your  cap  and  coat,  and  come  with 
me  immediately.  I  have  no  more  time  to  waste 
with  this  foolery,  my  man."  And  he  stepped 
forward  as  if  to  lay  hands  on  Woolly  Billy. 

Blackstock  interposed  an  inexorable  shoul- 
der. The  big  dog  growled,  and  stiffened  up 
the  hair  on  his  neck  ominously. 

"  Look    here,"     said     Blackstock     crisply, 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     141 

"  you're  goin'  to  git  yourself  into  trouble  be- 
fore you  go  much  further,  my  lad.  You  jest 
mind  your  manners.  When  you  bring  me 
them  proofs,  I'll  talk  to  you,  see !  " 

He  took  Woolly  Billy's  hand,  and  turned 
towards  the  door. 

The  stranger's  righteous  indignation, 
strangely  enough,  seemed  to  have  been  allayed 
by  this  speech.  He  followed  eagerly. 

"Don't  be  unreasonable,  Mr.  Blackstock," 
he  coaxed.  "  I'll  send  you  the  documents, 
from  my  solicitors,  at  once.  I'm  sure  you 
don't  want  to  stand  in  the  dear  child's  light 
this  way,  and  prevent  him  getting  back  to  his 
own  people,  and  the  life  that  is  his  right,  a  day 
longer  than  is  necessary.  Do  listen  to  reason, 
now."  And  he  patted  his  wad  of  bank-notes 
suggestively. 

But  at  this  stage,  Woolly  Billy  and  the  big 
dog  having  already  entered  the  cottage,  Black- 
stock  followed,  and  calmly  shut  the  door. 
"  You'll  smart  for  this,  you  ignorant  clod- 
hopper !  "  shouted  Mr.  Heathington  Johnson. 
He  clutched  the  door-knob.  But  for  all  his 
rage,  prudence  came  to  his  rescue.  He  did 
not  turn  the  knob.  After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion he  ground  his  heel  upon  the  doorstep, 
stalked  back  to  his  gig,  and  drove  off  furiously. 
The  three  at  the  window  watched  his  going. 


142      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

"  We  wont  see  him  back  here  again,"  re- 
marked the  Deputy.  "  He  wasn't  no  uncle  o' 
yours,  Woolly  Billy." 

That  same  evening  he  wrote  to  a  reliable 
firm  of  lawyers  at  Exville,  telling  them  all  he 
knew  about  Woolly  Billy  and  Woolly  Billy's 
father,  and  also  all  he  suspected,  and  instructed 
them  to  look  into  the  matter  fully. 

II 

Several  weeks  went  by,  and  the  imposing 
stranger,  as  Blackstock  had  anticipated,  failed 
to  return  with  his  proofs.  Then  came  a  letter 
from  the  lawyers  at  Exville,  saying  that  they 
had  something  important  to  communicate,  and 
Blackstock  hurried  off  to  see  them,  planning  to 
be  away  for  about  a  week. 

On  the  day  following  his  departure,  to  the 
delight  of  all  the  children  and  of  most  of  the 
rest  of  the  population  as  well,  there  arrived  at 
Brine's  Rip  Mills  a  man  with  a  dancing  bear. 
He  was  a  black-eyed,  swarthy,  merry  fellow, 
with  a  most  infectious  laugh,  and  besides  his 
trained  bear  he  possessed  a  pedlar's  pack  con- 
taining all  sorts  of  up-to-date  odds  and  ends, 
not  by  any  means  to  be  found  in  the  very 
utilitarian  miscellany  of  Zeb  Smith's  corner 
store. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     143 

He  talked  a  rather  musical  but  very  broken 
lingo  that  passed  for  English,  flashing  a 
mouthful  of  splendid  white  teeth  as  he  did  so. 
He  appeared  to  be  an  Italian,  and  the  men  of 
Brine's  Rip  christened  him  a  "  Dago  "  at  once. 
There  was  no  resisting  his  childlike  bonhomie, 
or  the  amiable  antics  of  his  great  brown  bear, 
which  grinned  through  its  muzzle  as  if  danc- 
ing to  its  master's  merry  piccolo  were  its  one 
delight  in  life.  And  the  two  did  a  roaring 
business  from  the  moment  they  came  strolling 
into  Brine's  Rip. 

"  Tony  "  was  what  the  laughing  vagabond 
called  himself,  and  his  bear  answered  to  the 
name  of  Beppo.  Business  being  so  good,  Tony 
could  afford  to  be  generous,  and  he  was  con- 
tinually pressing  peppermint  lozenges  upon  the 
rabble  of  children  who  formed  a  triumphal 
procession  for  him  wherever  he  moved. 

When  Tony's  eyes  first  fell  on  Woolly  Billy, 
standing  just  outside  the  crowd,  with  one  arm 
over  the  neck  of  the  big  black  dog,  he  was 
delighted. 

"  Com-a  here,  Bambino,  com-a  quick ! "  he 
cried,  holding  out  some  peppermints.  Woolly 
Billy  liked  him  at  once,  and  adored  the  bear, 
but  was  too  shy,  or  reserved,  to  push  his  way 
through  the  other  children.  So  Tony  came  to 


144      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

him,  leading  the  bear.  Woolly  Billy  stood  his 
ground,  with  a  welcoming  smile.  The  big 
black  dog  growled  doubtfully,  and  then  lost 
his  doubts  in  curious  admiration  of  the  bear, 
which  plainly  fascinated  him. 

Woolly  Billy  accepted  the  peppermints 
politely,  and  put  one  into  his  mouth  without 
delay.  Then,  with  an  apologetic  air,  the  Ital- 
ian laid  one  finger  softly  on  Woolly  Billy's 
curls,  and  drew  back  at  once,  as  if  fearing  he 
had  taken  a  liberty. 

"  Jim  likes  the  bear,  sir,  doesn't  he  ?  "  sug- 
gested Woolly  Billy,  to  make  conversation. 

"  Everybody  he  like-a  ze  bear.  Him  vaira 
good  bear,"  asserted  the  bear's  master,  and 
laughed  again,  giving  the  bear  a  peppermint. 
"  An'  you  one  vaira  good  bambino.  Ze  bear, 
he  like-a  you  vaira  much.  See  he  shak-a  you 
ze  hand  —  good  f rens  now." 

Encouraged  by  the  warmth  of  his  welcome, 
the  Italian  had  from  the  first  made  a  practice 
of  dropping  in  at  certain  houses  of  the  village 
just  at  meal  times  —  when  he  was  received 
always  with  true  backwoods  hospitality.  On 
Woolly  Billy's  invitation  he  had  come  to  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Amos.  The  old  lady,  too  rheu- 
matic to  get  about  much  out  of  doors,  was 
delighted  with  such  a  unique  and  amusing 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     145 

guest.  To  all  he  said  —  which,  indeed,  she 
never  more  than  half  understood  —  she  kept 
ejaculating,  "  Well,  I  never !  "  and  "  Did  ye 
ever  hear  the  likes  o'  that?  " 

And  the  bear,  chained  to  the  gate-post  and 
devouring  her  pancakes-and-molasses,  thrilled 
her  with  a  sense  of  "  furrin  parts."  In  fact, 
there  was  no  other  house  at  Brine's  Rip  where 
Tony  and  his  bear  were  made  more  warmly 
welcome  than  at  Mrs.  Amos'.  The  only  mem- 
ber of  the  household  who  lacked  cordiality  was 
Jim,  whose  coolness  towards  Tony,  however, 
was  fully  counterbalanced  by  his  interest  in 
the  bear.  Towards  Tony  his  attitude  was  one 
of  armed  neutrality. 

On  the  fourth  evening  after  the  arrival  of 
Tony  and  Beppo,  Jim  discovered  a  most  tempt- 
ing lump  of  meat  in  the  corner  of  Mrs.  Amos' 
garden.  Having  something  of  an  appetite  at 
the  moment,  he  was  just  about  to  bolt  the 
morsel.  But  no  sooner  had  he  set  his  teeth 
into  it  than  he  conceived  a  prejudice  against 
it.  He  dropped  it,  and  sniffed  at  it  intently. 
The  smell  was  quite  all  right.  He  turned  it 
over  with  his  paw  and  sniffed  at  the  under 
side.  No,  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
it.  Nevertheless,  his  appetite  had  quite  van- 
ished. Well,  it  would  do  for  another  time. 


146      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

He  dug  a  hole  and  buried  the  morsel,  and  then 
went  back  to  the  house  to  see  what  Woolly 
Billy  and  Mrs.  Amos  were  doing. 

A  little  later,  just  as  Mrs.  Amos  was  light- 
ing the  lamps  in  the  kitchen,  the  rattling  of  a 
chain  was  heard  outside,  followed  by  the  whim- 
pering of  Beppo,  who  objected  to  being  tied 
up  to  the  gate-post  when  he  wanted  to  come  in 
and  beg  for  pancakes.  Woolly  Billy  ran  to 
the  door  and  peered  forth  into  the  dusk.  After 
a  few  moments  Tony  entered,  all  his  teeth 
agleam  in  his  expansive  smile. 

He  had  a  little  bag  of  bon-bons  for  Woolly 
Billy  —  something  much  more  fascinating 
than  peppermints  —  which  he  doled  out  to  the 
child  one  by  one,  as  a  rare  treat.  And  for 
himself  he  wanted  a  cup  of  tea,  which  hospi- 
table Mrs.  Amos  was  only  too  eager  to  brew 
for  him.  Jim,  seeing  that  Woolly  Billy  was 
too  interested  to  need  his  company,  got  up  and 
went  out  to  inspect  the  bear. 

Tony  was  in  gay  spirits  that  evening.  In 
his  broken  English,  and  helping  out  his  mean- 
ing with  eloquent  gestures,  he  told  of  adven- 
tures which  made  Woolly  Billy's  eyes  as  round 
as  saucers  and  reduced  Mrs.  Amos  to  admiring 
speechlessness.  He  made  Mrs.  Amos  drink 
tea  with  him,  pouring  it  out  for  her  himself 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     147 

while  she  hobbled  about  to  find  him  something 
to  eat.  And  once  in  a  while,  at  tantalizing 
intervals,  he  allowed  Woolly  Billy  one  more 
bon-bon. 

There  was  a  chill  in  the  night  air,  so  Tony, 
who  was  always  politeness  itself,  asked  leave 
to  close  the  door.  Mrs.  Amos  hastened  also 
to  close  the  window.  Or,  rather,  she  tried  to 
hasten,  but  made  rather  a  poor  attempt,  and 
sat  down  heavily  in  the  big  arm-chair  beside  it. 

"  My  legs  is  that  heavy,"  she  explained, 
laughing  apologetically.  So  Tony  closed  the 
window  himself,  and  at  the  same  time  drew  the 
curtains.  Then  he  went  on  talking. 

But  apparently  his  conversation  was  less 
interesting  than  it  had  been.  There  came  a 
snore  from  Mrs.  Amos'  big  chair.  Tony 
glanced  aside  at  Woolly  Billy,  as  if  expecting 
the  child  to  laugh.  But  Woolly  Billy  took  no 
notice  of  the  sound.  He  was  fast  asleep,  his 
fluffy  fair  head  fallen  forward  upon  the  red 
table-cloth. 

Tony  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece. It  was  not  as  late  as  he  could  have 
wished,  but  he  had  observed  that  Brine's  Rip 
went  to  bed  early.  He  turned  the  lamp  low, 
softly  raised  the  window,  and  looked  out,  lis- 
tening. There  were  no  lights  in  the  village, 


148      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

and  all  was  silence  save  for  the  soft  roar  of 
the  Rip.  He  extinguished  the  lamp,  and 
waited  a  few  moments  till  his  eyes  got  quite 
accustomed  to  the  gloom. 

At  length  he  picked  up  the  slight  form  of 
Woolly  Billy  (who  was  now  in  a  drugged  stu- 
por from  which  he  would  not  awake  for  hours), 
and  slung  him  over  his  left  shoulder.  In  his 
right  hand  he  grasped  his  short  bear-whip,  with 
its  loaded  butt.  He  stepped  noiselessly  to  the 
door,  listened  a  few  moments,  and  then  opened 
it  inch  by  inch  with  his  left  hand,  standing 
behind  it,  and  grasping  the  whip  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  strike  with  the  butt.  He  was  won- 
dering where  the  big  black  dog  was. 

The  door  was  about  half  open,  when  a  black 
shape,  appearing  suddenly,  launched  itself  at 
the  opening.  The  loaded  butt  came  crashing 
down  —  and  Jim  dropped  sprawling  across  the 
threshold. 

From  the  back  of  the  bear  Tony  now  un- 
fastened a  small  pack,  and  strapped  it  over  his 
right  shoulder.  Then  he  unchained  the  great 
beast  noiselessly,  and  led  it  off  to  the  water- 
side, to  a  spot  where  a  heavy  log  canoe  was 
drawn  up  upon  the  beach.  He  hauled  the 
canoe  down,  making  much  disarrangement  in 
the  gravel,  launched  it,  thrust  it  far  out  into 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     149 

the  water,  and  noted  it  being  carried  away  by 
the  current.  He  had  no  wish  to  journey  by 
that  route  himself,  knowing  that  as  soon  as 
the  crime  was  discovered,  which  might  chance 
at  any  moment,  the  telephone  would  give  the 
alarm  all  down  the  river. 

Next  he  undid  the  bear's  chain,  and  took 
off  its  muzzle,  and  threw  them  both  into  the 
water,  knowing  that  when  freed  from  these 
badges  of  servitude  the  animal  would  wander 
further  and  more  freely.  At  first  the  good- 
natured  creature  was  unwilling  to  leave  him. 
Its  master,  from  policy,  had  always  treated  it 
kindly,  and  fed  it  well,  and  it  was  in  no  hurry 
to  profit  by  its  freedom. 

However,  the  man  ordered  it  off  towards 
the  woods,  enforcing  the  command  by  a  vig- 
orous push  and  a  stroke  of  the  whip.  Shaking 
itself  till  it  realized  its  freedom,  it  slouched 
away  a  few  paces  down  stream,  then  turned 
into  the  woods.  The  man  listened  to  its  care- 
less, crashing  progress. 

"  They'll  find  it  easy  following  that  trail," 
he  muttered  with  satisfaction. 

Assured  that  he  had  thus  thrown  out  two 
false  trails  to  distract  pursuers,  the  man  now 
stepped  into  the  water,  and  walked  up  stream 
for  several  hundred  yards,  till  he  reached  the 


150      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

spot  which  served  as  a  ferry  landing.  Here, 
in  the  multiplicity  of  footprints,  he  knew  his 
own  would  be  indistinguishable  to  even  the 
keenest  of  backwood  eyes.  He  came  ashore, 
slipped  through  the  slumbering  village,  and 
plunged  into  the  woods  with  the  assurance  of 
one  to  whom  their  mysteries  were  an  open 
book. 

He  was  shaping  his  course  —  by  the  stars 
at  present,  but  by  compass  when  it  should 
become  necessary  —  for  an  inlet  on  the  coast, 
where  there  would  be  a  sturdy  fishing-smack 
awaiting  him  and  his  rich  prize.  All  was 
working  smoothly  —  as  most  plans  were  apt  to 
work  under  his  swift,  resourceful  hands  —  and 
his  hard  lips  relaxed  in  triumphant  self-satis- 
faction. One  of  the  most  accomplished  and 
relentless  of  the  desperadoes  of  the  Great 
North- West,  he  had  peculiarly  enjoyed  his  pose 
as  the  childlike  Tony. 

For  hour  after  hour  he  pushed  on,  till  even 
his  untiring  sinews  began  to  protest.  About 
the  edge  of  dawn  Woolly  Billy  awoke,  but,  still 
stupid  with  the  heavy  drugging  he  had  re- 
ceived, he  did  not  seem  to  realize  what  had 
happened.  He  cried  a  little,  asking  for  Jim, 
and  for  Tug  Blackstock,  and  for  Mrs.  Amos, 
but  was  pacified  by  the  most  trivial  excuses. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     151 

The  man  gave  him  some  sweet  biscuits,  but  he 
refused  to  eat  them,  leaving  them  on  the  moss 
beside  him.  He  hardly  protested  even  when 
the  man  cut  off  his  bright  hair,  and  proceeded 
to  darken  what  was  left  with  some  queer- 
smelling  dye. 

When  the  man  undressed  him  and  proceeded 
to  stain  his  face  and  his  whole  body,  he  appar- 
ently thought  he  was  being  got  ready  for  bed, 
and  to  certain  terrible  threats  as  to  what  would 
happen  if  he  tried  to  get  away,  or  to  tell  any 
one  anything,  he  paid  no  attention  whatever. 
He  went  to  sleep  again  in  the  middle  of  it  all. 

Satisfied  with  his  job,  the  man  lay  down 
beside  him,  knowing  himself  secure  from  pur- 
suit, and  went  to  sleep  himself. 

Meanwhile,  after  lying  motionless  for  sev- 
eral hours,  where  he  had  dropped  across  the 
threshold,  Jim  at  last  began  to  stir.  That 
crashing  blow,  after  all,  had  not  fallen  quite 
true.  Jim  was  not  dead,  by  any  means.  He 
staggered  to  his  feet,  swayed  a  few  moments, 
and  then,  for  all  the  pain  in  his  head,  he  was 
practically  himself  again.  He  went  into  the 
cottage,  tried  in  vain  to  awaken  Mrs.  Amos 
in  her  chair,  hunted  for  Woolly  Billy  in  his 
bed,  and  at  last,  realizing  something  of  what 
had  happened,  rushed  forth  in  a  panic  of  rage 


152      JIM :  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

and  fear  and  grief,  and  remorse  for  a  trust 
betrayed. 

It  was  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes  to  trail  the 
party  down  to  the  waterside.  Then  he  darted 
off  after  the  bear.  The  latter,  grubbing  de- 
lightedly in  a  rotten  stump,  greeted  him  with 
a  friendly  "  Woof."  A  glance  and  a  sniff  sat- 
isfied Jim  that  Woolly  Billy  was  not  there,  and 
his  instinct  assured  him  that  the  bear  was 
void  of  offence  in  the  whole  matter.  He  knew 
the  enemy.  He  darted  back  to  the  waterside, 
ran  on  up  stream  to  the  ferry-landing,  picked 
up  the  trail  of  Tony's  feet,  followed  it  unerr- 
ingly through  the  confusion  of  other  foot- 
prints, and  darted  silently  into  the  woods  in 
pursuit. 

At  daybreak  an  early  riser,  seeing  the  door 
of  Mrs.  Amos'  cottage  standing  open,  looked 
in  and  saw  the  old  lady  still  asleep  in  her  chair. 
She  was  awakened  with  difficulty,  and  could 
give  but  a  vague  account  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. The  whole  village  turned  out.  Under 
the  leadership  of  Long  Jackson,  the  big  mill- 
hand  who  constituted  himself  Woolly  Billy's 
special  guardian  in  Blackstock's  absence,  the 
"Dago"  and  bear  were  traced  down  to  the 
waterside. 

Of  course,  it  was  clear  to  almost  every  one 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     153 

that  the  "  Dago  "  —  who  was  now  due  for 
lynching  when  caught  —  had  carried  Woolly 
Billy  off  down  river  in  the  vanished  canoe. 
Instantly  the  telephones  were  brought  into 
service,  and  half-a-dozen  expert  canoeists,  in 
the  swiftest  canoes  to  be  had,  started  off  in 
pursuit.  But  the  more  astute  of  the  woods- 
men —  including  Long  Jackson  himself  — 
held  that  this  river  clue  was  a  false  one,  a  ruse 
to  put  them  off  the  track.  This  group  went 
after  the  bear. 

In  an  hour  or  two  they  found  him.  And 
very  glad  to  see  them  he  appeared  to  be.  He 
was  getting  hungry,  and  a  bit  lonely.  So 
without  waiting  for  an  invitation,  with  touch- 
ing confidence  he  attached  himself  to  the  party, 
and  accompanied  it  back  to  the  village.  There 
Big  Andy,  who  had  always  had  a  weakness  for 
bears,  took  him  home  and  fed  him  and  shut  him 
up  in  the  back  yard. 

In  the  meantime  Jim,  travelling  at  a  speed 
that  the  fugitive  could  not  hope  to  rival,  had 
come  soon  after  daybreak  to  the  spot  where  the 
man  and  Woolly  Billy  lay  asleep. 

He  arrived  as  soundlessly  as  a  shadow.  At 
sight  of  his  enemy  —  for  he  knew  well  who 
had  carried  off  the  child,  and  who  had  dealt 
that  almost  fatal  blow  —  his  long  white  fangs 


154      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

bared  in  a  silent  snarl  of  hate.  But  he  had 
learnt,  well  learnt,  that  this  man  was  a  dan- 
gerous antagonist.  He  crouched,  stiffened  as 
if  to  stone,  and  surveyed  the  situation. 

His  sensitive  nose  prevented  him  from  being 
quite  deceived  by  the  transformation  in  Woolly 
Billy's  appearance.  He  was  puzzled  by  it,  but 
he  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  child's  identity.  Hav- 
ing satisfied  himself  that  the  little  fellow  was 
asleep,  and  therefore  presumably  safe  for  the 
moment,  he  turned  his  attention  to  his  enemy. 

The  man  was  sleeping  almost  on  his  back, 
one  arm  thrown  above  his  head,  his  chin  up, 
his  brown,  sinewy  throat  exposed.  That  bare 
throat  riveted  Jim's  vengeful  gaze.  He  knew 
well  that  the  man,  though  asleep  and  at  an 
utter  disadvantage,  was  the  most  dangerous 
adversary  he  could  possibly  tackle. 

Step  by  step,  so  lightly,  so  smoothly,  that  not 
a  twig  crackled  under  his  feet,  he  crept  up,  his 
muzzle,  outstretched,  his  fangs  gleaming,  the 
hair  rising  along  his  back.  When  he  was 
within  a  couple  of  paces  of  his  goal,  the  sleeper 
stirred  slightly,  as  if  about  to  wake  up,  or 
growing  conscious  of  danger.  Instantly  Jim 
sprang,  and  sank  his  fangs  deep,  deep,  into 
his  enemy's  throat. 

With  a  shriek  the  sleeper  awoke,  flinging 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DANCING  BEAR     155 

wide  his  arms  and  legs  convulsively.  But  the 
shriek  was  strangled  at  its  birth,  as  Jim's 
implacable  teeth  crunched  closer.  The  great 
dog  shook  his  victim  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat. 
There  was  a  choked  gurgle,  and  the  threshing 
arms  and  legs  lay  still. 

Jim  continued  his  savage  shaking  till  satis- 
fied his  foe  was  quite  dead.  Then  he  let  go, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  Woolly  Billy. 

The  child  was  sitting  up,  staring  at  him  with 
round  eyes  of  question  and  bewilderment. 

'  Where  am  I,  Jim?  "  he  demanded.  Then 
he  gazed  at  the  transformation  in  himself  — 
his  clothes  and  his  stained  hands.  He  saw  his 
old  clothes  tossed  aside,  his  curls  lying  near 
them  in  a  bright,  fluffy  heap.  He  felt  his 
cropped  head.  And  then  his  brain  began  to 
clear.  He  had  a  dim  memory  of  the  man  cut- 
ting his  hair  and  changing  his  clothes. 

Upon  his  first  glimpse  of  the  man,  lying  there 
dead  and  covered  with  blood,  he  felt  a  sharp 
pang  of  sorrow.  He  had  liked  Tony.  But 
the  pang  passed,  as  he  began  to  understand. 
If  Jim  had  killed  Tony,  Tony  must  have  been 
bad.  It  was  evident  that  Tony  had  carried 
him  off,  and  that  Jim  had  come  to  save  him. 
Jim  was  licking  his  face  now,  rapturously,  and 
evidently  coaxing  him  to  get  up  and  come  away. 

He  flung  his  arms  around  Jim's  neck.     Then 


156      JIM:  THE  BACKWOODS  POLICE  DOG 

he  saw  the  biscuits.  He  divided  them  evenly 
between  himself  and  Jim,  and  ate  his  portion 
with  good  appetite.  Jim  would  not  touch  his 
share,  so  Woolly  Billy  tucked  them  into  his 
pocket.  Then  he  got  up  and  followed  where 
Jim  was  trying  to  lead  him,  keeping  his  face 
averted  from  the  terrible,  bleeding  thing 
sprawled  there  upon  the  moss.  And  Jim  led 
him  safely  home. 

When  Tug  Blackstock,  two  days  later,  re- 
turned from  his  visit  to  Exville,  he  brought 
news  which  explained  why  a  certain  gang  of 
criminals  had  planned  to  get  possession  of 
Woolly  Billy.  The  child  had  fallen  heir  to  an 
immense  property  in  England,  and  an  ancient 
title,  and  he  was  to  have  been  held  for  ransom. 
From  that  moment  Blackstock  never  let  him 
out  of  his  sight,  until,  with  a  heavy  heart,  he 
handed  him  over  to  his  own  people. 

Thereafter,  as  he  sat  brooding  on  a  log  be- 
side the  noisy  river,  with  Jim  stretched  at  his 
feet,  Tug  Blackstock  felt  that  Brine's  Rip,  for 
the  lack  of  a  childish  voice  and  a  head  of  flaxen 
curls,  had  lost  all  savour  for  him.  And  his 
thoughts  turned  more  and  more  towards  the 
arguments  of  a  grey-eyed  girl,  who  had  urged 
him  to  seek  a  wider  sphere  for  his  energies 
than  the  confines  of  Nipsiwaska  County  could 
afford. 


THE    EAGLE 


THE    EAGLE 

HE  sat  upon  the  very  topmost  perch  under 
the  open-work  dome  of  his  spacious 
and  lofty  cage.  This  perch  was  one  of  three 
or  four  lopped  limbs  jutting  from  a  dead  tree- 
trunk  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  cage  —  a 
perch  far  other  than  that  great  branch  of 
thunder-blasted  pine,  out-thrust  from  the  sea- 
ward-facing cliff,  whereon  he  had  been  wont 
to  sit  in  his  own  land  across  the  ocean. 

He  sat  with  his  snowy,  gleaming,  flat- 
crowned  head  drawn  back  between  the  dark 
shoulders  of  his  slightly  uplifted  wings.  His 
black  and  yellow  eyes,  unwinking,  bright  and 
hard  like  glass,  stared  out  from  under  his 
overhanging  brows  with  a  kind  of  darting  and 
defiant  inquiry  quite  unlike  their  customary 
expression  of  tameless  despair.  That  dull 
world  outside  the  bars  of  his  cage,  that  hated, 
gaping,  inquisitive  world  which  he  had  ever 
tried  to  ignore  by  staring  at  the  sun  or  gazing 
into  the  deeps  of  sky  overhead,  how  it  had 
changed  since  yesterday !  The  curious  crowds, 
the  gabbling  voices  were  gone.  Even  the  high 

159 


160  THE   EAGLE 

buildings  of  red  brick  or  whitish-grey  stone, 
beyond  the  iron  palings  of  the  park,  were 
going,  toppling  down  with  a  slow,  dizzy  lurch, 
or  leaping  suddenly  into  the  air  with  a  roar 
and  a  huge  belch  of  brown  and  orange  smoke 
and  scarlet  flame.  Here  and  there  he  saw  men 
running  wildly.  Here  and  there  he  saw  other 
men  lying  quite  still  —  sprawling,  inert  shapes 
on  the  close-cropped  grass,  or  the  white 
asphalted  walks,  or  the  tossed  pavement  of  the 
street.  He  knew  that  these  inert,  sprawling 
shapes  were  men,  and  that  the  men  were  dead ; 
and  the  sight  filled  his  exile  heart  with  triumph. 
Men  were  his  enemies,  his  gaolers,  his  oppo- 
nents, and  now  at  last  —  he  knew  not  how  — 
he  was  tasting  vengeance.  The  once  smooth 
green  turf  around  his  cage  was  becoming 
pitted  with  strange  yellow-brown  holes.  These 
holes,  he  had  noticed,  always  appeared  after 
a  burst  of  terrific  noise,  and  livid  flame,  and 
coloured  smoke,  followed  by  a  shower  of  clods 
and  pebbles,  and  hard  fragments  which  some- 
times flew  right  through  his  cage  with  a  vicious 
hum.  There  was  a  deadly  force  in  these  hum- 
ming fragments.  He  knew  it,  for  his  partner 
in  captivity,  a  golden  eagle  of  the  Alps,  had 
been  hit  by  one  of  them,  and  now  lay  dead  on 
the  littered  floor  below  him,  a  mere  heap  of 


THE  EAGLE  161 

bloody  feathers.  Certain  of  the  iron  bars  of 
the  cage,  too,  had  been  struck  and  cut  through, 
as  neatly  as  his  own  hooked  beak  would  sever 
the  paw  of  a  rabbit. 

The  air  was  full  of  tremendous  crashing, 
buffeting  sounds  and  sudden  fierce  gusts,  which 
forced  him  to  tighten  the  iron  grip  of  his  talons 
upon  the  perch.  In  the  centre  of  the  little  park 
pond,  some  fifty  feet  from  his  cage,  clustered 
a  panic-stricken  knot  of  eight  or  ten  fancy 
ducks  and  two  pairs  of  red-billed  coot,  all  that 
remained  of  the  flock  of  water-birds  which  had 
formerly  screamed  and  gabbled  over  the  pool. 
This  little  cluster  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
ferment,  those  on  the  outside  struggling  to  get 
into  the  centre,  those  on  the  inside  striving  to 
keep  their  places.  From  time  to  time  one  or 
two  on  the  outer  ring  would  dive  under  and 
force  their  way  up  in  the  middle  of  the  press, 
where  they  imagined  themselves  more  secure. 
But  presently  they  would  find  themselves  on 
the  outside  again,  whereupon,  in  frantic  haste, 
they  would  repeat  the  manoeuvre.  The  pierc- 
ing glance  of  the  eagle  took  in  and  dismissed 
this  futile  panic  with  immeasurable  scorn. 
With  like  scorn,  too,  he  noted  the  three  gaunt 
cranes  which  had  been  wont  to  stalk  so  arro- 
gantly among  the  lesser  fowl  and  drive  them 


162  THE   EAGLE 

from  their  meals.  These  once  domineering 
birds  were  now  standing  huddled,  their 
drooped  heads  close  together,  beneath  a  dense 
laurel  thicket  just  behind  the  cage,  their  long 
legs  quaking  at  every  explosion. 

Amid  all  this  destroying  tumult  and  flying 
death  the  eagle  had  no  fear.  He  was  merely 
excited  by  it.  If  a  fragment  of  shell  sang  past 
his  head,  he  never  flinched,  his  level  stare  never 
even  filmed  or  wavered.  The  roar  and  crash, 
indeed,  and  the  monstrous  buffetings  of  tor- 
mented air,  seemed  to  assuage  the  long  ache  of 
his  home-sickness.  They  reminded  him  of  the 
hurricane  racing  past  his  ancient  pine,  of  the 
giant  waves  shattering  themselves  with  thun- 
derous jar  upon  the  cliff  below.  From  time  to 
time,  as  if  his  nerves  were  straining  with  irre- 
sistible exultation,  he  would  lift  himself  to  his 
full  height,  half  spread  his  wings,  stretch  for- 
ward his  gleaming  white  neck,  and  give  utter- 
ance to  a  short,  strident,  yelping  cry.  Then  he 
would  settle  back  upon  his  perch  again,  and 
resume  his  fierce  contemplation  of  the  ruin  that 
was  falling  on  the  city. 

Suddenly  an  eleven-inch  shell  dropped 
straight  in  the  centre  of  the  pool  and  exploded 
on  the  concrete  bottom  which  underlay  the 
mud.  Half  the  pool  went  up  in  the  colossal 


THE  EAGLE  163 

eruption  of  blown  flame  and  steam  and  smoke. 
Even  here  on  his  perch  the  eagle  found  him- 
self spattered  and  drenched.  When  the 
shrunken  surface  of  the  pool  had  closed  again 
over  the  awful  vortex,  and  the  smoke  had 
drifted  off  to  join  itself  to  the  dark  cloud  which 
hung  over  the  city,  the  little  flock  of  ducks  and 
coot  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  simply  was 
not.  But  a  bleeding  fragment  of  flesh,  with 
some  purple-and-chestnut  feathers  clinging  to 
it,  lay  upon  the  bottom  of  the  cage.  This 
morsel  caught  the  eagle's  eye.  He  had  been 
forgotten  for  the  past  two  days  —  the  old 
one-legged  keeper  of  the  cages  having  van- 
ished —  and  he  was  ravenous  with  hunger. 
He  hopped  down  briskly  to  the  floor,  grabbed 
the  morsel,  and  gulped  it.  Then  he  looked 
around  hopefully  for  more.  There  were  no 
more  such  opportune  tit-bits  within  the  cage, 
but  just  outside  he  saw  the  half  of  a  big  carp, 
which  had  been  torn  in  twain  by  a  caprice  of 
the  explosion  and  tossed  up  here  upon  the 
grass.  This  was  just  such  a  morsel  as  he  was 
craving.  He  thrust  one  great  talon  out  be- 
tween the  bars  and  clutched  at  the  prize.  But 
it  was  beyond  his  reach.  Disappointed,  he 
tried  the  other  claw,  balancing  himself  on  one 
leg  with  widespread  wings.  Stretch  and 


164  THE   EAGLE 

struggle  as  he  would,  it  was  all  in  vain.  The 
fish  lay  too  far  off.  Then  he  tried  reaching 
through  the  bars  with  his  head.  He  elongated 
his  neck  till  he  almost  thought  he  was  a  heron, 
and  till  his  great  beak  was  snapping  hungrily 
within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  prize.  But  not  a 
hair's-breadth  closer  could  he  get.  At  last, 
in  a  cold  fury,  he  gave  it  up,  and  drew  back, 
and  shook  himself  to  rearrange  the  much 
dishevelled  feathers  of  his  neck. 

Just  at  this  moment,  while  he  was  still  on 
the  floor  of  the  cage,  a  high-velocity  shell  came 
by.  With  its  flat  trajectory  it  passed  just 
overhead,  swept  the  dome  of  the  cage  clean  out 
of  existence,  and  whizzed  onwards  to  explode, 
with  a  curious  grunting  crash,  some  hundreds 
of  yards  beyond.  The  eagle  looked  up  and 
gazed  for  some  seconds  before  realizing  that 
his  prison  was  no  longer  a  prison.  The  path 
was  clear  above  him  to  the  free  spaces  of  the 
air.  But  he  was  in  no  unseemly  haste.  His 
eye  measured  accurately  the  width  of  the  exit, 
and  saw  that  it  was  awkwardly  narrow  for  his 
great  spread  of  wing.  He  could  not  essay  it 
directly  from  the  ground,  his  quarters  being 
too  straitened  for  free  flight.  Hopping  up- 
wards from  limb  to  limb  of  the  roosting-tree, 
he  regained  the  topmost  perch,  and  found  that, 


THE  EAGLE  165 

though  split  by  a  stray  splinter  of  the  cage,  it 
was  still  able  to  bear  his  weight.  From  this 
point  he  sprang  straight  upwards,  with  one 
beat  of  his  wings.  But  the  wing-tips  struck 
violently  against  each  side  of  the  opening,  and 
he  was  thrown  back  with  such  force  that  only 
by  a  furious  flopping  and  struggle  could  he 
regain  his  footing  on  the  perch. 

After  this  unexpected  rebuff  he  sat  quiet  for 
perhaps  half  a  minute,  staring  fixedly  at  the 
exit.  He  was  not  going  to  fail  again  through 
misjudgment.  The  straight  top  of  the  roost- 
ing-tree  extended  for  about  three  feet  above 
his  perch,  but  this  extension  being  of  no  use 
to  him,  he  had  never  paid  any  heed  to  it  hith- 
erto. Now,  however,  he  marked  it  with  new 
interest.  It  was  close  below  the  hole  in  the 
roof.  He  flopped  up  to  it,  balanced  himself 
for  a  second,  and  once  more  sprang  for  the 
opening,  but  this  time  with  a  short,  convulsive 
beat  of  wings  only  half  spread.  The  leap  car- 
ried him  almost  through,  but  not  far  enough 
for  him  to  get  another  stroke  of  his  wings. 
Clutching  out  wildly  with  stretched  talons,  he 
succeeded  in  catching  the  end  of  a  broken  bar. 
Desperately  he  clung  to  it,  resisting  the  natural 
impulse  to  help  himself  by  flapping  his  wings. 
Reaching  out  with  his  beak,  he  gripped  another 


166  THE   EAGLE 

bar,  and  so  steadied  himself  till  he  could  gain 
a  foothold  with  both  talons.  Then  slowly,  like 
a  dog  getting  over  a  wall,  he  dragged  himself 
forth,  and  stood  at  last  free  on  the  outer  side 
of  the  bars  which  had  been  so  long  his 
prison. 

But  the  first  thing  he  thought  of  was  not 
freedom.  It  was  fish.  For  perhaps  a  dozen 
seconds  he  gazed  about  him  majestically,  and 
scanned  with  calm  the  toppling  and  crashing 
world.  Then  spreading  his  splendid  wings  to 
their  fullest  extent,  with  no  longer  any  fear 
of  them  striking  against  iron  bars,  he  dropped 
down  to  the  grass  beside  the  cage  and  clutched 
the  body  of  the  slain  carp.  He  was  no  more 
than  just  in  time,  for  a  second  later  a  pair  of 
mink,  released  from  their  captivity  in  perhaps 
the  same  way  as  he  had  been,  came  gliding  fur- 
tively around  the  base  of  the  cage,  intent  upon 
the  same  booty.  He  turned  his  head  over  his 
shoulder  and  gave  them  one  look,  then  fell  to 
tearing  and  gulping  his  meal  as  unconcernedly 
as  if  the  two  savage  little  beasts  had  been  field 
mice.  The  mink  stopped  short,  flashed  white 
fangs  at  him  in  a  soundless  snarl  of  hate,  and 
whipped  about  to  forage  in  some  more  aus- 
picious direction. 

When  the  eagle  had  finished  his  meal  — 


THE  EAGLE  167 

which  took  him,  indeed,  scarcely  more  time 
than  takes  to  tell  of  it  —  he  wiped  his  great 
beak  meticulously  on  the  turf.  While  he  was 
doing  so,  a  shell  burst  so  near  him  that  he  was 
half  smothered  in  dry  earth.  Indignantly  he 
shook  himself,  hopped  a  pace  or  two  aside, 
ruffled  up  his  feathers,  and  proceeded  to  make 
his  toilet  as  scrupulously  as  if  no  shells  or 
sudden  death  were  within  a  thousand  miles  of 
him. 

The  toilet  completed  to  his  satisfaction,  he 
took  a  little  flapping  run  and  rose  into  the  air. 
He  flew  straight  for  the  highest  point  within 
his  view,  which  chanced  to  be  the  slender,  soar- 
ing spire  of  a  church  somewhere  about  the 
centre  of  the  city.  As  he  mounted  on  a  long 
slant,  he  came  into  the  level  where  most  of 
the  shells  were  travelling,  for  their  objective 
was  not  the  little  park  with  its  "  Zoo,"  but  a 
line  of  fortifications  some  distance  beyond. 
Above,  below,  around  him  streamed  the  ter- 
rible projectiles,  whinnying  or  whistling, 
shrieking  or  roaring,  each  according  to  its 
calibre  and  its  type.  It  seemed  a  miracle  that 
he  should  come  through  that  zone  unscathed; 
but  his  vision  was  so  powerful  and  all-embrac- 
ing, his  judgment  of  speed  and  distance  so 
instantaneous  and  unerring,  that  he  was  able 


168  THE   EAGLE 

to  avoid,  without  apparent  effort,  all  but  the 
smallest  and  least  visible  shells,  and  these  lat- 
ter, by  the  favour  of  Fate,  did  not  come  his 
way.  He  was  more  annoyed,  indeed,  by  cer- 
tain volleys  of  debris  which  occasionally 
spouted  up  at  him  with  a  disagreeable  noise, 
and  by  the  evil-smelling  smoke  clouds,  which 
came  volleying  about  him  without  any  reason 
that  he  could  discern.  He  flapped  up  to  a 
higher  level  to  escape  these  annoyances,  and 
so  found  himself  above  the  track  of  the  shells. 
Then  he  made  for  the  church  spire,  and  perched 
himself  upon  the  tip  of  the  great  weather-vane. 
It  was  exactly  what  he  wanted  —  a  lofty  ob- 
servation post  from  which  to  view  the  country 
round  about  before  deciding  in  which  direction 
he  would  journey. 

From  this  high  post  he  noticed  that,  while 
he  was  well  above  one  zone  of  shells,  there 
was  still  another  zone  of  them  screaming  far 
overhead.  These  projectiles  of  the  upper 
strata  of  air  were  travelling  in  the  opposite 
direction.  He  marked  that  they  came  from 
a  crowded  line  of  smoke-bursts  and  blinding 
flashes  just  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  city. 
He  decided  that,  upon  resuming  his  journey, 
he  would  fly  at  the  present  level,  and  so  avoid 
traversing  again  either  of  the  zones  of  death. 


THE  EAGLE  169 

Much  to  his  disappointment,  he  found  that 
his  present  observation  post  did  not  give  him 
as  wide  a  view  as  he  had  hoped  for.  The 
city  of  his  captivity,  he  now  saw,  was  set  upon 
the  loop  of  a  silver  stream  in  the  centre  of  a 
saucer-like  valley.  In  every  direction  his  view 
was  limited  by  low,  encircling  hills.  Along 
one  sector  of  this  circuit  —  that  from  which 
the  shells  of  the  lower  stratum  seemed  to  him 
to  be  issuing  —  the  hill-rim  and  the  slopes 
below  it  were  fringed  with  vomiting  smoke- 
clouds  and  biting  spurts  of  fire.  This  did  not, 
however,  influence  in  the  least  his  choice  of 
the  direction  in  which  to  journey.  Instinct, 
little  by  little,  as  he  sat  there  on  the  slowly 
veering  vane,  was  deciding  that  point  for  him. 
His  gaze  was  fixing  itself  more  and  more  to- 
wards the  north,  or,  rather,  the  north-west; 
for  something  seemed  to  whisper  in  his  heart 
that  there  was  where  he  would  find  the  wild 
solitudes  which  he  longed  for.  The  rugged 
and  mist-wreathed  peaks  of  Scotland  or  North 
Wales,  though  he  knew  them  not,  were  calling 
to  him  in  his  new-found  freedom. 

The  call,  however,  was  not  yet  strong  enough 
to  be  determining,  so,  having  well  fed  and 
being  beyond  measure  content  with  his  liberty, 
he  lingered  on  his  skyey  perch  and  watched 


170  THE  EAGLE 

the  crash  of  the  opposing  bombardments.  The 
quarter  of  the  town  immediately  beneath  him 
had  so  far  suffered  little  from  the  shells,  and 
the  church  showed  no  signs  of  damage  except 
for  one  gaping  hole  in  the  roof.  But  along 
the  line  of  the  fortifications  there  seemed  to  be 
but  one  gigantic  boiling  of  smoke  and  flames, 
with  continual  spouting  fountains  of  debris. 
This  inexplicable  turmoil  held  his  interest  for 
a  few  moments.  Then,  while  he  was  wonder- 
ing what  it  all  meant,  an  eleven-inch  shell 
struck  the  church  spire  squarely  about  thirty 
feet  below  him. 

The  explosion  almost  stunned  him.  The  tip 
of  the  spire  —  with  the  weather-cock,  and  the 
eagle  still  clinging  to  it  —  went  rocketing 
straight  up  into  the  air  amid  a  stifling  cloud  of 
black  smoke,  while  the  rest  of  the  structure, 
down  to  a  dozen  feet  below  the  point  of  impact, 
was  blown  to  the  four  winds.  Half  stunned 
though  he  was,  the  amazed  bird  kept  his  wits 
about  him,  and  clutched  firmly  to  his  flying 
perch  till  it  reached  the  end  of  its  flight  and 
turned  to  fall.  Then  he  spread  his  wings  wide 
and  let  go.  The  erratic  mass  of  wood  and 
metal  dropped  away,  and  left  him  floating, 
half-blinded,  in  the  heart  of  the  smoke-cloud. 
A  couple  of  violent  wing-beats,  however,  car- 


THE  EAGLE  171 

ried  him  clear  of  the  cloud;  and  at  once  he 
shaped  his  course  upwards,  as  steeply  as  he 
could  mount,  smitten  with  a  sudden  desire  for 
the  calm  and  the  solitude  which  were  asso- 
ciated in  his  memory  with  the  uppermost  deeps 
of  air. 

The  fire  from  the  city  batteries  had  just  now 
slackened  for  a  little,  and  the  great  bird's 
progress  carried  him  through  the  higher  shell 
zone  without  mishap.  In  a  minute  or  two  he 
was  far  above  those  strange  flocks  which  flew 
so  straight  and  swift,  and  made  such  incompre- 
hensible noises  in  their  flight.  Presently,  too, 
he  was  above  the  smoke,  the  very  last  wisps 
of  it  having  thinned  off  into  the  clear,  dry  air. 
He  now  began  to  find  that  he  had  come  once 
more  into  his  own  peculiar  realm,  the  realm  of 
the  upper  sky,  so  high  that,  as  he  thought,  ho 
other  living  creature  could  approach  him.  He 
arrested  his  ascent,  and  began  to  circle  slowly 
on  still  wings,  surveying  the  earth. 

But  now  he  received,  for  the  first  time,  a 
shock.  Hitherto  the  most  astounding  happen- 
ings had  failed  to  startle  him,  but  now  a  pang 
of  something  very  like  fear  shot  through  his 
stout  heart.  A  little  to  southward  of  the  city 
he  saw  a  vast  pale-yellow  elongated  form  ris- 
ing swiftly,  without  any  visible  effort,  straight 


172  THE   EAGLE 

into  the  sky.  Had  he  ever  seen  a  sausage,  he 
would  have  thought  that  this  yellow  monster 
was  shaped  like  one.  Certain  fine  cords  de- 
scended from  it,  reaching  all  the  way  to  the 
earth,  and  below  its  middle  hung  a  basket,  with 
a  man  in  it.  It  rose  to  a  height  some  hundreds 
of  feet  beyond  the  level  on  which  the  eagle  had 
been  feeling  himself  supreme.  Then  it  came 
to  rest,  and  hung  there,  swaying  slowly  in  the 
mild  wind. 

His  apprehension  speedily  giving  way  to 
injured  pride,  the  eagle  flew  upwards,  in  short, 
steep  spirals,  as  fast  as  his  wings  could  drive 
him.  Not  till  he  could  once  more  look  down 
upon  the  fat  back  of  the  glistening  yellow  mon- 
ster did  he  regain  his  mood  of  unruffled  calm. 
But  he  regained  it  only  to  have  it  stripped  from 
him,  a  minute  later,  with  tenfold  lack  of  cere- 
mony. For  far  above  him  —  so  high  that  even 
his  undaunted  wings  would  never  venture 
thither  —  he  heard  a  fierce  and  terrible  hum- 
ming sound.  He  saw  something  like  a  colossal 
bird  —  or  rather,  it  was  more  suggestive  of  a 
dragon-fly  than  a  bird  —  speeding  towards  him 
with  never  a  single  beat  of  its  vast,  pale  wings. 
Its  speed  was  appalling.  The  eagle  was  afraid, 
but  not  with  any  foolish  panic.  He  knew  that 
even  as  a  sparrow  would  be  to  him,  so  would 


THE  EAGLE  173 

he  be  to  this  unheard-of  sovereign  of  the  skies. 
Therefore  it  was  possible  the  sovereign  of  the 
skies  would  ignore  him  and  seek  a  more  worthy 
opponent.  Yes,  it  was  heading  towards  the 
giant  sausage.  And  the  sausage,  plainly,  had 
no  stomach  for  the  encounter.  It  seemed  to 
shrink  suddenly ;  and  with  sickening  lurches  it 
began  to  descend,  as  if  strong  hands  were  tug- 
ging upon  the  cords  which  anchored  it  to  earth. 
The  eagle  winged  off  modestly  to  one  side,  but 
not  far  enough  to  miss  anything  of  the  stu- 
pendous encounter  which  he  felt  was  coming. 
Here,  at  last,  were  events  of  a  strangeness  and 
a  terror  to  move  even  his  cool  spirit  out  of  its 
indifference. 

Now  the  giant  insect  was  near  enough  for 
the  eagle  to  mark  that  it  had  eyes  on  the  under- 
sides of  its  wings  —  immense,  round,  coloured 
eyes  of  red  and  white  and  blue.  Its  shattering 
hum  shook  the  eagle's  nerves,  steady  and  sea- 
soned though  they  were.  Slanting  slightly 
downwards,  it  darted  straight  toward  the  sau- 
sage, which  was  now  wallowing  fatly  in  its 
convulsive  efforts  to  descend.  At  the  same 
time  the  eagle  caught  sight  of  another  of  the 
giant  birds,  or  insects,  somewhat  different  in 
shape  and  colour  from  the  first,  darting  up 
from  the  opposite  direction.  Was  it,  too,  he 


174  THE  EAGLE 

wondered,  coming  to  attack  the  terrified 
sausage,  or  to  defend  it? 

Before  he  could  find  an  answer  to  this  excit- 
ing question,  the  first  monster  had  arrived 
directly  above  the  sausage  and  was  circling 
over  it  at  some  height,  glaring  down  upon  it 
with  those  great  staring  eyes  of  its  wings. 
Something  struck  the  sausage  fairly  in  the 
back.  Instantly,  with  a  tremendous  windy 
roar,  the  sausage  vanished  in  a  sheet  of  flame. 
The  monster  far  above  it  rocked  and  plunged 
in  the  uprush  of  tormented  air,  the  waves  of 
which  reached  even  to  where  the  eagle  hung 
poised,  and  forced  him  to  flap  violently  in  order 
to  keep  his  balance  against  them. 

A  few  moments  later  the  second  monster 
arrived.  The  eagle  saw  at  once  that  the  two 
were  enemies.  The  first  dived  headlong  at  the 
second,  spitting  fire,  with  a  loud  and  dreadful 
rap-rap-rapping  noise,  from  its  strange  blunt 
muzzle.  The  two  circled  around  each  other, 
and  over  and  under  each  other,  at  a  speed 
which  made  even  the  eagle  dizzy  with  amaze- 
ment; and  he  saw  that  it  was  something  more 
deadly  than  fire  which  spurted  from  their  blunt 
snouts;  for  every  now  and  then  small  things, 
which  travelled  too  fast  for  him  to  see,  twanged 
past  him  with  a  vicious  note  which  he  knew  for 


THE  EAGLE  175 

the  voice  of  death.  He  edged  discreetly  far- 
ther away.  Evidently  this  battle  of  the  giants 
was  dangerous  to  spectators.  His  curiosity 
was  beginning  to  get  sated.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  the  danger  area  altogether, 
when  the  dreadful  duel  came  suddenly  to  an 
end.  He  saw  the  second  monster  plunge 
drunkenly,  in  wild,  ungoverned  lurches,  and 
then  drop  head  first,  down,  down,  down, 
straight  as  a  stone,  till  it  crashed  into  the  earth 
and  instantly  burst  into  flame.  He  saw  the 
great,  still  eyes  of  the  victor  staring  down 
inscrutably  upon  the  wreck  of  its  foe.  Then 
he  saw  it  whirl  sharply  —  tilting  its  rigid  wings 
at  so  steep  an  angle  that  it  almost  seemed  about 
to  overturn  —  and  dart  away  again  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  had  come.  He  saw 
the  reason  for  this  swift  departure.  A  flock 
of  six  more  monsters,  of  the  breed  of  the  one 
just  slain,  came  sweeping  up  from  the  south 
to  take  vengeance  for  their  comrade's  defeat. 
The  eagle  had  no  mind  to  await  them.  He 
had  had  enough  of  wonders,  and  the  call  in 
his  heart  had  suddenly  grown  clear  and  intel- 
ligible. Mounting  still  upward  till  he  felt  the 
air  growing  thin  beneath  his  wing-beats,  he 
headed  northwards  as  fast  as  he  could  fly. 
He  had  no  more  interest  now  in  the  amazing 


176  THE   EAGLE 

panorama  which  unrolled  beneath  him,  in  the 
thundering  and  screaming  flights  of  shell  which 
sped  past  in  the  lower  strata  of  the  air.  He 
was  intent  only  upon  gaining  the  wild  solitudes 
of  which  he  dreamed.  He  marked  others  of 
the  monsters  which  he  so  dreaded,  journeying 
sometimes  alone,  sometimes  in  flocks,  but 
always  with  the  same  implacable  directness  of 
flight,  always  with  that  angry  and  menacing 
hum  which,  of  all  the  sounds  he  had  ever  heard, 
alone  had  power  to  shake  his  bold  heart.  He 
noticed  that  sometimes  the  sky  all  about  these 
monsters  would  be  filled  with  sudden  bursts 
of  fleecy  cloud,  looking  soft  as  wool ;  and  once 
he  saw  one  of  these  apparently  harmless  clouds 
burst  full  on  the  nose  of  one  of  the  monsters, 
which  instantly  flew  apart  and  went  hurtling 
down  to  earth  in  revolving  fragments.  But 
he  was  no  longer  curious.  He  gave  them  all 
as  wide  a  berth  as  possible,  and  sped  on,  with- 
out delaying  to  note  their  triumphs  or  their 
defeats. 

At  last  the  earth  grew  green  again  below 
him.  The  monsters,  the  smoke,  the  shells,  the 
flames,  the  thunders,  were  gradually  left  be- 
hind, and  far  ahead  at  last  he  saw  the  sea, 
flashing  gold  and  sapphire  beneath  the  summer 
sun.  Soon  —  for  he  flew  swiftly  —  it  was 


THE  EAGLE  177 

almost  beneath  him.  His  heart  exulted  at  the 
sight.  Then  across  that  stretch  of  gleaming 
tide  he  saw  a  dim  line  of  cliffs  —  white  cliffs, 
such  cliffs  as  he  desired. 

But  at  this  point,  when  he  was  so  near  his 
goal,  that  Fate  which  had  always  loved  to 
juggle  with  him  decided  to  show  him  a  new 
one  of  her  tricks.  Two  more  monsters  ap- 
peared, diving  steeply  from  the  blue  above  him. 
One  was  pursuing  the  other.  Quite  near  him 
the  pursuer  overtook  its  quarry,  and  the  two 
spat  fire  at  each  other  with  that  strident  rap- 
rap-rapping  sound  which  he  so  disliked.  He 
swerved  as  wide  as  possible  from  the  path  of 
their  terrible  combat,  and  paid  no  heed  to  its 
outcome.  But,  as  he  fled,  something  struck 
him  near  the  tip  of  his  left  wing. 

The  shock  went  through  him  like  a  needle  of 
ice  or  firer  and  he  dropped,  leaving  a  little 
cloud  of  feathers  in  the  air  above  to  settle 
slowly  after  him.  He  turned  once  completely 
over  as  he  fell.  But  presently,  with  terrific 
effort,  he  succeeded  in  regaining  a  partial  bal- 
ance. He  could  no  longer  fully  support  him- 
self, still  less  continue  his  direct  flight ;  but  he 
managed  to  keep  on  an  even  keel  and  to  delay 
his  fall.  He  knew  that  to  drop  into  the  sea 
below  him  was  certain  death.  But  he  had 


178  THE   EAGLE 

marked  that  the  sea  was  dotted  with  peculiar- 
looking  ships  —  long,  narrow,  dark  ships  - — 
which  travelled  furiously,  vomiting  black 
smoke  and  carrying  a  white  mass  of  foam  in 
their  teeth.  Supporting  himself,  with  the  last 
ounce  of  his  strength,  till  one  of  these  rushing 
ships  was  just  about  to  pass  below  him,  he  let 
himself  drop,  and  landed  sprawling  on  the 
deck. 

Half  stunned  though  he  was,  he  recovered 
himself  almost  instantly,  clawed  up  to  his  feet, 
steadied  himself  with  one  outstretched  wing 
against  the  pitching  of  the  deck,  and  defied, 
with  hard,  undaunted  eye  and  threatening  beak, 
a  tall  figure  in  blue,  white-capped  and  gold- 
braided,  which  stood  smiling  down  upon  him. 
***** 

"  By  Jove,"  exclaimed  Sub-Lieutenant  James 
Smith,  "  here's  luck :  Uncle  Sam's  own  chicken, 
which  he's  sent  us  as  a  mascot  till  his  ships  can 
get  over  and  take  a  hand  in  the  game  with  us : 
Delighted  to  see  you,  old  bird:  You've  come 
to  the  right  spot,  you  have,  and  we'll  do  the 
best  we  can  to  make  you  comfortable." 


THE    MULE 


THE    MULE 

THE  mule  lines  at  Aveluy  were  restless 
and  unsteady  under  the  tormented 
dark.  All  day  long  a  six:inch  high-velocity 
gun,  firing  at  irregular  intervals  from  some- 
where on  the  low  ridge  beyond  the  Ancre,  had 
been  feeling  for  them.  Those  terrible  swift 
shells,  which  travel  so  fast,  on  their  flat  tra- 
jectory, that  their  bedlam  shriek  of  warning 
and  the  rending  crash  of  their  explosion  seem 
to  come  in  the  same  breathless  instant,  had 
tested  the  nerves  of  man  and  beast  sufficiently 
during  the  daylight;  but  now,  in  the  shifting 
obscurity  of  a  young  moon  harrowed  by  driv- 
ing cloud-rack,  their  effect  was  yet  more  daunt- 
ing. So  far  they  had  been  doing  little  damage, 
having  been  occupied,  for  the  most  part,  in 
blowing  new  craters  in  the  old  lines,  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  further  east,  which  had  been 
vacated  only  two  days  before  on  account  of 
their  deep-trodden  and  intolerable  mud.  All 
day  our  'planes,  patrolling  the  sky  over  Tara 
Hill  and  the  lines  of  Regina,  had  kept  the 
Boche's  airmen  at  such  a  distance  that  they 

181 


182  THE  MULE 

could  not  observe  and  register  for  their  bat- 
teries; and  this  terrible  gun  was,  therefore, 
firing  blind.  But  there  came  a  time,  during 
the  long  night,  when  it  seemed  to  reach  the 
conclusion  that  its  target  must  be  pretty  well 
obliterated.  Squatting  in  its  veiled  lair  behind 
the  heights  of  Ancre,  it  lifted  its  raking  muzzle, 
ever  so  slightly,  and  put  another  two  hundred 
yards  on  to  its  range. 

The  next  shell  screamed  down  straight  upon 
the  lines.  The  crash  tore  earth  and  air.  A 
massive  column  of  black  smoke  vomited  up- 
wards, pierced  with  straight  flame  and  streaked 
with  flying  fragments  of  mules  and  ropes  and 
tether-pegs.  Deadly  splinters  of  shell  hissed 
forth  from  it  on  all  sides.  The  top  of  the  col- 
umn spread  outwards;  the  base  thinned  and 
lifted:  a  raw  and  ghastly  crater,  like  some  Dan- 
tesque  dream  of  the  mouth  of  Hell,  came  into 
view ;  and  there  followed  a  faint,  hideous  sound 
of  nameless  things  pattering  down  upon  the 
mud. 

Near  the  edge  of  the  crater  stood  a  big,  raw- 
boned  black  mule.  His  team  mate  and  the 
three  other  mules  tethered  nearest  to  him  had 
vanished.  Several  others  lay  about  on  either 
side  of  him,  dead  or  screaming  in  their  death 
agonies.  But  he  was  untouched.  At  the 


THE  MULE  183 

appalling  shock  he  had  sprung  back  upon  his 
haunches,  snorting  madly;  but  the  tethering- 
rope  had  held,  and  he  had  almost  thrown  him- 
self. Then,  after  the  fashion  of  his  kind,  he 
had  lashed  out  wildly  with  his  iron-shod  heels. 
But  he  was  tough  of  nerve  and  stout  of  heart 
far  beyond  the  fashion  of  his  kind,  and  almost 
at  once  he  pulled  himself  together  and  stood 
trembling,  straining  on  the  halter,  his  long  ears 
laid  back  upon  his  head.  Then  his  eyes,  roll- 
ing white,  with  a  green  gleam  of  horror  at  the 
centre,  took  note  of  the  familiar  form  of  his 
driver,  standing  by  his  head  and  feeling  him- 
self curiously,  as  if  puzzled  at  being  still  alive. 
This  sight  reassured  the  black  mule  amaz- 
ingly. His  expressive  ears  wagged  forward 
again,  and  he  thrust  his  frothing  muzzle  hard 
against  the  man's  shoulder,  as  if  to  ask  him 
what  it  all  meant.  The  man  flung  an  arm  over 
the  beast's  quivering  neck  and  leaned  himself 
against  him  for  a  moment  or  two,  dazed  from 
the  tremendous  shock  which  had  lifted  him 
from  his  feet  and  slammed  him  down  viciously 
upon  the  ground.  He  coughed  once  or  twice, 
and  tried  to  wipe  the  reek  of  the  explosion  from 
his  eyes.  Then,  coming  fully  to  himself,  he 
hurriedly  untethered  his  charge,  patted  him 
reassuringly  on  the  nose,  loosed  the  next  mule 


184  THE  MULE 

behind  him  on  the  lines,  and  led  the  two  away 
in  haste  toward  safer  quarters.  As  he  did  so, 
another  shell  came  in,  some  fifty  yards  to  the 
left,  and  the  lines  became  a  bedlam  of  kicking 
and  snorting  beasts,  with  their  drivers,  cursing 
and  coaxing,  according  to  their  several  meth- 
ods, clawing  at  the  ropes  and  hurrying  to  get 
their  charges  away  to  safety. 

At  any  other  time  the  big  black  mule  —  an 
unregenerate  product  of  the  Argentine,  with  a 
temper  which  took  delight  in  giving  trouble  to 
all  in  authority  over  him  —  might  have  baulked 
energetically  as  a  protest  against  being  moved 
from  his  place  at  this  irregular  hour.  But  he 
was  endowed  with  a  perception  of  his  own  in- 
terests, which  came  rather  from  the  humbler 
than  the  more  aristocratic  side  of  his  ancestry. 
He  was  no  victim  of  that  childish  panic  which 
is  so  liable,  in  a  moment  of  desperation,  to  per- 
vert the  high-strung  intelligence  of  the  horse. 
He  felt  that  the  man  knew  just  what  to  do  in 
this  dreadful  and  demoralizing  situation.  So 
he  obeyed  and  followed  like  a  lamb ;  and  in  that 
moment  he  conceived  an  affection  for  his  driver 
which  made  him  nothing  less  than  a  changed 
mule.  His  amazing  docility  had  its  effect  upon 
the  second  mule,  and  the  driver  got  them  both 
away  without  any  difficulty.  When  all  the 


THE  MULE  185 

rest  of  the  survivors  had  been  successfully 
shifted  to  new  ground,  far  off  to  the  right,  the 
terrible  gun  continued  for  another  hour  to  blow 
craters  up  and  down  the  deserted  lines.  Then 
it  lengthened  its  range  once  more,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  night  shattering  to  powder  the 
ruins  of  an  already  ruined  and  quite  deserted 
street,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  smash- 
ing up  some  of  our  crowded  billets.  A  little 
before  daylight,  however,  a  shell  from  one  of 
our  forward  batteries,  up  behind  Regina 
Trench,  found  its  way  into  the  lair  where  the 
monster  squatted,  and  rest  descended  upon 
Aveluy  in  the  bleak  autumnal  dawn. 

This  was  in  the  rain-scourged  autumn  of 
1916,  when  the  unspeakable  desolation  of  the 
Somme  battlefield  was  a  sea  of  mud.  The 
ruins  of  the  villages  —  Ovillers,  La  Boisselle, 
Pozieres,  Courcelette,  Martinpuich,  and  all  the 
others  which  had  once  made  fair  with  flowers 
and  orchards  this  rolling  plateau  of  Picardy  — 
had  been  pounded  flat  by  the  inexorable  guns, 
and  were  now  mere  islands  of  firmer  ground 
in  the  shell-pitted  wastes  of  red  mire.  Men 
went  encased  in  mud  from  boots  to  shrapnel 
helmet.  And  it  was  a  special  mud  of  exas- 
perating tenacity,  a  cement  of  beaten  chalk  and 
clay.  The  few  spidery  tram-lines  ran  pre- 


186  THE  MULE 

cariously  along  the  edges  of  the  shell-holes,  out 
over  the  naked,  fire-swept  undulations  beyond 
Mouquet  Farm  and  Courcelette,  where  they 
were  continually  being  knocked  to  pieces  by  the 
"  whizz-bangs,"  and  tirelessly  rebuilt  by  our 
dauntless  pioneers  and  railway  troops.  Scat- 
tered all  about  this  dreadful  naked  waste  be- 
hind our  front  trenches  lurked  our  forward 
batteries,  their  shallow  gun-pits  cunningly 
camouflaged  behind  every  little  swell  of  tum- 
bled mud. 

This  foul  mud,  hiding  in  the  deep  slime  of 
its  shell-holes  every  kind  of  trap  and  putrid 
horror,  was  the  appropriate  ally  of  the  Ger- 
mans. Stinkingly  and  tenaciously  and  treach- 
erously, as  befitted,  it  opposed  the  feeding  of 
the  guns.  Two  by  two  or  four  by  four,  accord- 
ing to  their  size,  the  shells  for  the  guns  had  to 
be  carried  up  from  the  forward  dumps  in  little 
wicker  panniers  slung  across  the  backs  of 
horses  and  mules.  It  was  a  slow  process,  pre- 
carious and  costly,  but  it  beat  the  mud,  and 
the  insatiable  guns  were  fed. 

After  the  night  when  the  mule-lines  at 
Aveluy  were  shelled,  the  big  black  mule  and  his 
driver  were  put  on  this  job  of  carrying  up 
shells  to  the  forward  batteries.  The  driver, 
a  gaunt,  green-eyed,  ginger-haired  teamster 


THE  MULE  187 

from  the  lumber  camps  of  Northern  New 
Brunswick,  received  the  order  with  a  crooked 
grin. 

"  Say  your  prayers  now,  Sonny,"  he  mut- 
tered in  the  mule's  big,  waving  ear,  which  came 
to  "  attention  "  promptly  to  receive  his  com- 
munication. "  You'll  be  wishing  you  was  back 
in  them  old  lines  at  Aveluy  afore  we're  through 
with  this  job.  Fritzy  over  yonder  ain't  goin' 
to  like  you  an'  me  one  little  bit  when  he  gits 
on  to  what  we're  up  to.  It  ain't  like  haulin' 
fodder,  I  tell  you  that.  But  I  guess  we've  got 
the  nerve  all  right." 

Instead  of  rolling  the  whites  of  his  eyes  at 
him,  in  surly  protest  against  this  familiarity, 
the  black  mule  responded  by  nibbling  gently  at 
the  sleeve  of  his  muddy  tunic. 

"  Geezely  Christmas,"  murmured  the  driver, 
astonished  at  this  evidence  of  goodwill,  "  but 
it's  queer,  now,  how  a  taste  o'  shell-fire'll  some- 
times work  a  change  o'  heart,  even  in  an  Argen- 
tine mule.  I  only  hope  it'll  last,  Sonny.  If 
it  does,  we're  goin'  to  git  along  fine,  you  an' 
me."  And  the  next  time  he  visited  the  canteen 
he  brought  back  a  biscuit  or  two  and  a  slab  of 
sweet  chocolate,  to  confirm  the  capricious  beast 
in  its  mended  manners. 

Early  that  same  afternoon  the  black  mule 


188  THE  MULE 

found  himself  in  new  surroundings.  He  was 
at  the  big  ammunition  dump  which  lay  con- 
cealed in  an  obscure  hollow  near  the  ruins  of 
Courcelette.  He  looked  with  suspicion  on  the 
wicker  panniers  which  were  slung  across  his 
sturdy  back.  Saddles  he  knew,  and  harness  he 
knew,  but  this  was  a  contraption  which  roused 
misgivings  in  his  conservative  soul.  When  the 
shells  were  slipped  into  the  panniers,  and  he 
felt  the  sudden  weight,  so  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  size  of  the  burden,  he  laid  back  his  long 
ears  with  a  grunt,  and  gathered  his  muscles 
for  a  protesting  kick.  But  his  driver,  stand- 
ing at  his  head,  stroked  his  muzzle  soothingly 
and  murmured :  "  There,  there,  steady,  Son ! 
Keep  your  hair  on !  It  ain't  goin'  to  bite  you." 

Thus  adjured,  he  composed  himself  with  an 
effort,  and  the  lashing  kick  was  not  delivered. 

'  What  a  persuasive  cuss  you  must  be, 
Jimmy  Wright !  "  said  the  man  who  was  hand- 
ling the  shells.  "  I  wouldn't  trust  you  round 
with  my  best  girl,  if  you  can  get  a  bucking  mule 
locoed  that  way  with  your  soft  sawder." 

"  It  ain't  me,"  replied  the  New  Brunswicker. 
"  It's  shell-shock,  I  guess,  kind  of  helped  along 
with  chocolate  an'  biscuits.  He  got  a  bit  of  a 
shaking  up  when  they  shelled  the  lines  at 
Aveluy  night  afore  last,  an'  he's  been  a  lamb 


THE  MULE  189 

ever  since.  Seems  to  think  /  saved  his  hide  for 
him.  He  was  the  very  devil  to  handle  afore 
that." 

For  some  way  from  the  dump  the  journey 
was  uneventful.  The  path  to  the  guns  led 
along  a  sunken  road,  completely  hidden  from 
the  enemy's  observation  posts.  The  dull,  per- 
sistent rain  had  ceased  for  a  little,  and  the 
broad  patches  of  blue  overhead  were  dotted 
with  our  droning  aeroplanes,  which  every  now 
and  then  would  dive  into  a  low-drifting  rack  of 
grey  cloud  to  shake  off  the  shrapnel  of  the  Ger- 
man "  Archies."  Of  German  'planes  none 
were  to  be  seen,  for  they  had  all  sped  home  to 
their  hangars  when  our  fighting  squadrons  rose 
to  the  encounter.  The  earth  rocked  to  the  ex- 
plosions of  our  9.2  howitzers  ranged  about 
Pozieres  and  Martinpuich,  and  the  air  clam- 
oured under  the  passage  of  their  giant  shells 
as  they  went  roaring  over  toward  the  German 
lines.  Now  and  again  a  vicious  whining  sound 
would  swell  suddenly  to  a  nerve-racking  shriek, 
and  an  enemy  shell  would  land  with  a  massive 
cr-r-ump,  and  a  furious  blast  of  smoke  and  mud 
would  belch  upwards  to  one  side  or  other  of 
the  sunken  road.  But  none  of  these  unwel- 
come visitors  came  into  the  road  itself,  and 
neither  the  black  mule  nor  Jimmy  Wright  paid 


190  THE  MULE 

them  any  more  attention  than  the  merest  roll 
of  an  eye  to  mark  their  billet. 

"  Change  o'  heart  hain't  spoiled  old  Sonny's 
nerve,  anyhow,"  thought  the  driver  to  himself, 
with  deep  approval. 

A  little  further  on  and  the  trail  up  to  "  X's 
Group,"  quitting  the  shelter  of  the  sunken  road, 
led  out  across  the  red  desolation,  in  the  very 
eye,  as  it  seemed  to  the  New  Brunswicker,  of 
the  enemy's  positions.  It  was  a  narrow,  un- 
dulating track,  slippery  as  oil,  yet  tenacious  as 
glue,  corkscrewing  its  laborious  way  between 
the  old  slime-filled  shell-pits.  From  the  sur- 
face of  one  of  these  wells  of  foul-coloured  ooze 
the  legs  of  a  dead  horse  stuck  up  stiffly  into  the 
air,  like  four  posts  on  which  to  lay  a  foot- 
bridge. A  few  yards  beyond,  the  track  was 
cut  by  a  fresh  shell-hole,  too  new  to  have  col- 
lected any  water.  Its  raw  sides  were  streaked 
red  and  white  and  black,  and  just  at  its  rim 
lay  the  mangled  fragments  of  something  that 
might  recently  have  been  a  mule.  The  long 
ears  of  Wright's  mule  waved  backwards  and 
forwards  at  the  sight,  and  he  snorted  appre- 
hensively. 

*  This  don't  appear  to  be  a  health  resort  for 
us,  Sonny,"  commented  the  New  Brunswicker, 
"  so  we  won't  linger,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you." 


THE  MULE  191 

And  he  led  the  way  around  the  other  side  of  the 
new  shell-hole,  the  big  mule  crowding  close  be- 
hind with  quivering  muzzle  at  his  shoulder. 

However  urgent  Wright's  desire  for  speed, 
speed  was  ridiculously  impossible.  The  obsti- 
nate pro-German  mud  was  not  lightly  to  be 
overcome.  Even  on  the  firmer  ridges  it  clung 
far  above  the  fetlocks  of  the  black  mule,  and 
struggled  to  suck  off  Wright's  hobnailed  boots 
at  every  labouring  step.  Though  a  marrow- 
piercing  north-easter  swept  the  waste,  both 
man  and  mule  were  lathered  in  sweat.  Half 
their  energy  had  to  be  expended  in  recovering 
themselves  from  continual  slithering  slides 
which  threatened  to  land  them  in  the  engulfing 
horrors  of  the  shell-holes.  For  all  that  he  had 
so  little  breath  to  spare,  Jimmy  Wright  kept 
muttering  through  his  teeth  strange  expletives 
and  objurgations  from  the  vocabulary  of  the 
lumber  camps,  eloquent  but  unprintable,  to 
which  the  black  mule  lent  ear  admiringly.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  his  driver's  remarks,  though 
he  could  not  understand  them,  were  doubtless 
such  as  would  command  his  fullest  accord. 
For  his  own  part  he  had  no  means  of  express- 
ing such  sentiments  except  through  his  heels, 
and  these  were  now  all  too  fully  occupied  in 
their  battle  with  the  mud. 


192  THE  MULE 

By  this  time  the  black  mule  had  become  abso- 
lutely convinced  that  his  fate  was  in  the  hands 
of  his  ginger-haired  driver.  Jimmy  Wright, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  was  his  sole  protection 
against  this  violent  horror  which  kept  burst- 
ing and  crashing  on  every  hand  about  him.  It 
was  clear  to  him  that  Jimmy  Wright,  though 
apparently  much  annoyed,  was  not  afraid. 
Therefore,  with  Jimmy  Wright  as  his  protector 
he  was  safe.  He  wagged  his  ears,  snorted 
contemptuously  at  a  5.9  which  spurted  up  a 
column  of  mud  and  smoke  some  hundred  yards 
to  the  left,  and  plodded  on  gamely  through  the 
mud.  He  didn't  know  where  he  was  going, 
but  Jimmy  Wright  was  there,  and  just  ahead 
of  his  nose,  where  he  could  sniff  at  him;  and  he 
felt  sure  there  would  be  fodder  and  a  rub  down 
at  the  end  of  the  weary  road. 

In  the  midst  of  these  consoling  reflections 
something  startling  and  inexplicable  happened. 
He  was  enveloped  and  swept  away  in  a  deaf- 
ening roar.  Thick  blackness,  streaked  with 
star-showers,  blinded  him.  Though  half-stu- 
pefied, he  kicked  and  struggled  with  all  his 
strength,  for  it  was  not  in  him  to  yield  himself, 
like  a  stricken  horse,  to  any  stroke  of  Fate. 

When  he  once  more  saw  daylight,  he  was 
recovering  his  feet  just  below  the  rim  of  an  old 


THE  MULE  193 

shell-hole.  He  gained  the  top,  braced  his  legs, 
and  shook  himself  vigorously.  The  loaded 
panniers  thumping  heavily  upon  his  ribs  re- 
stored him  fully  to  his  senses.  Snorting 
through  wide  red  nostrils,  he  stared  about  him 
wildly.  Some  ten  paces  distant  he  saw  a  great 
new  crater  in  the  mud,  reeking  with  black  and 
orange  fumes. 

But  where  was  Jimmy  Wright?  The  mule 
swept  anxious  eyes  across  the  waste  of  shell- 
holes,  in  every  direction.  In  vain.  His  mas- 
ter had  vanished.  He  felt  himself  deserted. 
Panic  began  to  clutch  at  his  heart,  and  he  gath- 
ered his  muscles  for  frantic  flight.  And  then 
he  recovered  himself  and  stood  steady.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  a  ginger-haired  head,  bare  of 
its  shrapnel  helmet,  lying  on  the  mud  at  the 
other  side  of  the  shell-hole  from  which  he  had 
just  struggled  out. 

His  panic  passed  at  once,  but  it  gave  place 
to  anxious  wonder.  There,  indeed,  was  Jimmy 
Wright,  but  what  was  he  doing  there?  His 
body  was  buried  almost  to  the  shoulders  in  the 
discoloured  slime  that  half  rilled  the  shell-hole. 
He  was  lying  on  his  face.  His  arms  were  out- 
stretched, and  his  hands  were  clutching  at  the 
slippery  walls  of  the  hole  as  if  he  were  striving 
to  pull  himself  up  from  the  water.  This  effort, 


194  THE  MULE 

however,  seemed  anything  but  successful.  The 
mule  saw,  indeed,  that  his  protector  was  slowly 
slipping  deeper  into  the  slime.  This  filled  him 
with  fresh  alarm.  If  Jimmy  Wright  should 
disappear  under  that  foul  surface,  that  would 
be  desertion  complete  and  final.  It  was  not 
to  be  endured. 

Quickly  but  cautiously  the  mule  picked  his 
way  around  the  hole,  and  then,  with  sagacious 
bracing  of  his  hoofs,  down  to  his  master's  side. 
But  what  was  to  be  done  next?  Jimmy 
Wright's  face  was  turned  so  that  he  could  not 
see  his  would-be  rescuer.  His  hands  were  still 
clutching  at  the  mud,  but  feebly  and  without 
effect. 

The  mule  saw  that  his  master  was  on  the 
point  of  vanishing  under  the  mud,  of  deserting 
him  in  his  extremity.  This  was  intolerable. 
The  emergency  quickened  his  wits.  Instinct 
suggested  to  him  that  to  keep  a  thing  one  should 
take  hold  of  it  and  hold  on  to  it.  He  reached 
down  with  his  big  yellow  teeth,  took  hold  of 
the  shoulder  of  Jimmy  Wright's  tunic,  and  held 
on.  Unfamiliar  with  anatomy,  he  at  the  same 
time  took  hold  of  a  substantial  portion  of 
Jimmy  Wright's  own  shoulder  inside  the  tunic, 
and  held  on  to  that.  He  braced  himself,  and 
with  a  loud,  involuntary  snort  began  to  pull. 


THE  MULE  195 

Jimmy  Wright,  up  to  this  point,  had  been  no 
more  than  half  conscious.  The  mule's  teeth 
in  his  shoulder  revived  him  effectually.  He 
came  to  himself  with  a  yell.  He  remembered 
the  shell-burst.  He  saw  and  understood  where 
he  was.  He  was  afraid  to  move  for  a  moment, 
lest  he  should  find  that  his  shoulder  was  blown 
off.  But  no,  he  had  two  arms,  and  he  could 
move  them.  He  had  his  shoulder  all  right,  for 
something  was  pulling  at  it  with  quite  sicken- 
ing energy.  He  reached  up  his  right  arm  — 
it  was  the  left  shoulder  that  was  being  tugged 
at  —  and  encountered  the  furry  head  and  ears 
of  his  rescuer. 

"Sonny!"  he  shouted.  "Well,  I'll  be 

d d !  "  And  he  gripped  fervently  at  the 

mule's  neck. 

Reassured  at  the  sound  of  his  master's  voice, 
the  big  mule  took  his  teeth  out  of  Wright's 
shoulder  and  began  nuzzling  solicitously  at  his 
sandy  head. 

"  It's  all  right,  old  man,"  said  the  New 
Brunswicker,  thinking  quickly,  while  with  his 
left  hand  he  secured  a  grip  on  the  mule's  head- 
stall. Then  he  strove  to  raise  himself  from 
the  slime.  The  effort  produced  no  result, 
except  to  send  a  wave  of  blackness  across  his 
brain.  Wondering  sickly  if  he  carried  some 


196  THE  MULE 

terrible  injury  concealed  under  the  mud,  he 
made  haste  to  pass  the  halter  rope  under  his 
arms  and  knot  it  beneath  his  chest.  Then  he 
shouted  for  help,  twice  and  again,  till  his  voice 
trailed  off  into  a  whimper  and  he  relapsed  into 
unconsciousness.  The  mule  shifted  his  feet  to 
gain  a  more  secure  foothold  on  the  treacherous 
slope,  and  then  stood  wagging  his  ears  and 
gazing  down  on  Jimmy  in  benevolent  content. 
So  long  as  Jimmy  was  with  him,  he  felt  that 
things  were  bound  to  come  all  right.  Jimmy 
would  presently  get  up  and  lead  him  out  of  the 
shell-hole,  and  take  him  home. 

Shell  after  shell,  whining  or  thundering  ac- 
cording to  their  breed,  soared  high  over  the 
hole,  but  the  black  mule  only  wagged  his  ears 
at  them.  His  eyes  were  anchored  upon  the 
unconscious  sandy  head  of  Jimmy  Wright. 
Suddenly,  however,  a  sharp  voice  made  him 
look  up.  He  saw  a  couple  of  stretcher-bearers 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  shell-hole,  looking 
down  sympathetically  upon  him  and  his  charge. 
In  a  second  or  two  they  were  beside  him,  skil- 
fully and  tenderly  extricating  Jimmy's  body 
from  the  mud. 

"  He  ain't  gone  west  this  time,"  pronounced 
one,  who  had  thrust  an  understanding  hand 
into  the  breast  of  the  tunic. 


THE  MULE  197 

Jimmy  Wright  opened  his  eyes  wide  sud- 
denly. 

"Not  by  a  d d  sight  I  ain't,  Bill!"  he 

muttered  rather  thickly.  Then,  his  wits  and 
his  voice  coming  clearer,  he  added:  "  But  if  I 

ain't,  it's  thanks  to  this  here  old  of  an 

Argentine  mule,  that  come  down  into  this  hole 
and  yanked  me  out  o'  the  mud,  and  saved  me. 
Eh,  Sonny  ?  " 

The  big  mule  was  crowding  up  so  close  to 
him  as  to  somewhat  incommode  the  two  men 
in  their  task  on  that  treacherous  incline.  But 
they  warded  off  his  inconvenient  attentions 
very  gently. 

"  He's  some  mule,  all  right,"  grunted  one  of 
the  bearers,  as  they  got  Jimmy  on  to  the 
stretcher  and  laboriously  climbed  from  the 
shell-hole. 


STRIPES    THE    UNCON- 
CERNED 

ON  the  edge  of  evening,  when  the  last  of 
the  light  was  gathered  in  the  pale-green 
upper  sky,  and  all  the  world  of  the  quiet  back- 
woods clearings  was  sunken  in  a  soft  violet 
dusk,  a  leisurely  and  self-possessed  little  ani- 
mal came  strolling  among  the  ancient  stumps 
and  mossy  hillocks  of  the  open  upland  sheep- 
pasture.  He  was  about  the  size  of  an  average 
cat,  but  shorter  of  leg,  with  a  long,  sharp- 
muzzled  head,  and  he  carried  his  broad  feath- 
ery tail  very  high  in  a  graceful  arch,  like  a 
squirrel  in  good  humour.  Unlike  most  other 
creatures  of  the  wild,  his  colouring  was  such 
as  to  make  him  conspicuous  rather  than  to  con- 
ceal him.  He  was  black,  with  a  white  stripe 
down  his  face,  a  white  patch  on  the  back  of  his 
neck,  and  a  white  stripe  all  the  way  along  each 
side  of  his  body.  And,  also,  unlike  the  rest  of 
the  furtive  folk,  he  seemed  quite  unconcerned 
to  hide  his  movements  from  observation. 
Neither  was  he  for  ever  glancing  this  way  and 

201 


202         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

that,  as  if  on  the  watch  for  enemies.  Rather 
he  had  the  air  of  being  content  that  his  enemies 
should  do  the  watching —  and  avoid  him. 

The  skunk  —  for  such  was  the  undignified 
appellation  of  this  very  dignified  personality 
of  the  wilderness  —  was  pleasantly  engrossed 
in  his  own  business.  That  business,  at  the 
moment,  consisted  in  catching  the  big,  fat, 
juicy,  copper-brown  "  June-bugs "  as  they 
emerged  from  their  holes  in  the  sod,  crawled 
up  the  bending  grass-stems,  and  spread  their 
wings  for  their  heavy  evening  flight.  It  was 
easy  hunting,  and  he  had  no  need  of  haste.  To 
snap  up  these  great,  slow  and  clumsy  beetles  as 
they  clung  upon  the  grass-stems  was  as  easy 
as  picking  strawberries,  and,  indeed,  not  alto- 
gether dissimilar,  as  he  would  nip  off  the  hard, 
glossy  wing-cases  of  the  big  beetles  as  one  nips 
off  the  hull  of  the  berry  before  munching  the 
succulent  morsel. 

Having  slept  the  day  through  in  his  snug 
burrow,  in  the  underbrush  which  fringed  the 
forest  edge  of  the  clearing,  he  had  come  forth 
into  the  dewy  twilight  equipped  with  a  fine 
appetite.  He  had  come  with  the  definite  pur- 
pose of  hunting  "June-bugs,"  this  being  the 
season,  all  too  brief,  for  that  highly-flavoured 
delicacy.  At  first  he  had  thought  of  nothing 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         203 

else;  but  when  he  had  taken  the  edge  off  his 
hunger,  he  began  to  consider  the  chances  of 
varying  his  diet.  As  he  seized  an  unlucky 
beetle,  close  to  the  edge  of  a  flat,  spreading 
juniper  bush,  a  brooding  ground-sparrow  flew 
up,  with  a  startled  cheep,  from  under  his  very 
nose.  He  dropped  the  beetle  and  made  a  light- 
ning pounce  at  the  bird.  But  her  wing  had 
flicked  him  across  the  eyes,  confusingly,  and 
he  missed  her.  He  knew  well  enough,  how- 
ever, what  her  presence  there  among  the  warm 
grass-tussocks  meant.  He  went  nosing  eagerly 
under  the  juniper  bush,  and  soon  found  a  nest 
with  four  little  brown-mottled  eggs  in  it. 
Tiny  though  they  were,  they  made  a  tit-bit  very 
much  to  his  taste,  all  the  more  so  that  they  were 
very  near  hatching.  Having  licked  his  jaws 
and  fastidiously  polished  the  fur  of  his  shrewd, 
keen  face,  he  sauntered  off  to  see  what  other 
delicacies  the  evening  might  have  in  store  for 
him. 

A  little  further  on,  toward  the  centre  of  the 
pasture,  he  came  upon  a  flat  slab  of  rock,  its 
surface  sloping  toward  the  south,  its  southward 
edge  slightly  overhanging  and  fringed  with 
soft  grass.  He  knew  the  rock  well  —  knew 
how  its  bare  surface  drank  in  the  summer  sun 
all  day  long,  and  held  the  warmth  throughout 


204         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

the  dew-chill  nights.  He  knew,  too,  that  other 
creatures  besides  himself  might  very  well  ap- 
preciate this  genial  warmth.  Stealthily,  and 
without  the  smallest  disturbance  of  the  grassy 
fringe,  he  sniffed  along  the  overhanging  edge 
of  the  rock.  Suddenly  he  stiffened,  and  his 
sharp  nose  darted  in  under  the  rock.  Then  he 
jerked  back,  with  the  writhing  tail  of  a  snake 
between  his  jaws. 

The  prize  was  a  big  black-and-yellow  garter 
snake,  not  far  from  three  feet  long,  —  not  ven- 
omous, but  full  of  energy  and  fight.  It  tried 
to  cling  to  its  hiding-place;  but  the  shrewd 
skunk,  instead  of  attempting  to  pull  it  out 
straight,  like  a  cork  from  a  bottle  neck,  ran 
forward  a  pace  or  two,  and,  as  it  were, "  peeled  " 
it  forth.  It  doubled  out,  struck  him  smartly 
in  the  face  with  its  harmless  fangs,  and  then 
coiled  itself  about  his  neck  and  forelegs. 
There  was  a  moment  of  confused  rough-and- 
tumble,  but  the  skunk  knew  just  how  to  handle 
this  kind  of  antagonist.  Having  bitten  the 
reptile's  tail  clean  through,  he  presently,  with 
the  help  of  his  practised  little  jaws,  succeeded 
in  getting  hold  of  it  by  the  back,  an  inch  or 
two  behind  the  head.  This  ended  the  affair, 
as  a  struggle,  and  the  victor  proceeded  to  round 
off  his  supper  on  snake.  He  managed  to  put 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         205 

away  almost  all  but  the  head  and  tail,  and  then, 
after  a  meticulous  toilet  to  fur  and  paws  —  for 
he  was  as  fastidiously  cleanly  as  a  cat  —  he 
sauntered  back  toward  his  burrow  in  the  under- 
brush, to  refresh  himself  with  a  nap  before 
seeking  further  adventures. 

Directly  in  his  path  stood  three  or  four 
young  seedling  firs,  about  two  feet  high,  in  a 
dense  cluster.  Half  a  dozen  paces  beyond  this 
tiny  thicket  a  big  red  fox,  belly  to  earth,  was 
soundlessly  stalking  some  quarry,  perhaps  a 
mouse,  which  could  be  heard  ever  so  faintly 
rustling  the  grass-stems  at  the  edge  of  the 
thicket.  To  the  skunk,  with  his  well-filled 
belly,  the  sound  had  no  interest.  He  rounded 
the  thicket  and  came  face  to  face  with  the  fox. 

Neither  in  size,  strength,  nor  agility  was  he 
any  match  for  the  savage  red  beast  which  stood 
in  his  path,  and  was  quite  capable,  indeed,  of 
dispatching  him  in  two  snaps  of  his  long,  lean 
jaws.  But  he  was  not  in  the  least  put  out. 
Watchful,  but  cool,  he  kept  straight  on,  neither 
delaying  nor  hastening  his  leisurely  and  non- 
chalant progress.  The  fox,  on  the  other  hand, 
stopped  short.  He  was  hungry.  His  hunting 
was  interfered  with,  for  that  rustling  under 
the  fir-branches  had  stopped.  His  fine  red 
brush  twitched  angrily.  Nevertheless,  he  had 


206         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

no  stomach  to  tackle  this  easy-going  little  gen- 
tleman in  the  black-and-white  stripes.  Show- 
ing his  long  white  teeth  in  a  vindictive  but 
noiseless  snarl,  he  stepped  aside.  And  the 
skunk,  glancing  back  with  bright  eyes  of  vigi- 
lance and  understanding,  passed  on  as  if  the 
twilight  world  belonged  to  him.  He  knew  — 
and  he  knew  his  enemy  knew  as  well  —  that  he 
carried  with  him  a  concealed  weapon  of  such 
potency  that  no  fox,  unless  afflicted  with  mad- 
ness, would  ever  willingly  run  up  against  it. 

Reaching  his  burrow  in  the  underbrush  with- 
out further  adventure,  he  found  it  empty.  His 
mate  and  her  young  ones  —  now  three-quar- 
ters grown  —  were  scattered  away  foraging 
for  themselves  over  the  wide,  forest-scented 
clearings.  It  was  a  spacious  burrow,  dug  by 
a  sturdy,  surly  old  woodchuck,  who,  though 
usually  as  pugnacious  as  a  badger  and  an  ob- 
stinate stickler  for  his  rights,  had  in  this  case 
yielded  without  a  fight  to  the  mild-mannered 
little  usurper,  and  humped  off  in  disgust  to 
hollow  a  new  abode  much  deeper  in  the  forest, 
where  such  a  mischance  would  not  be  likely 
to  happen  him  again.  Under  the  tenancy  of 
the  skunk  family  the  burrow  was  sweet  and 
dry  and  daintily  kept.  With  a  little  grumble 
of  content  deep  in  his  throat  he  curled  himself 
up  and  went  to  sleep. 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         207 

When  he  woke  and  set  forth  again  to  renew 
his  foraging,  although  he  had  only  slept  an 
hour,  his  vigorous  digestion  had  quite  restored 
his  appetite.  He  had  no  more  thought  for 
June-bugs.  He  wanted  bigger  game,  more 
red-blooded  and  with  some  excitement  in  it. 
He  thought  of  the  farmyard,  half  a  mile  away 
across  the  clearings,  down  over  the  round  of 
the  upland.  It  was  weeks  now  since  he  had 
visited  it.  There  might  be  something  worth 
picking  up.  There  might  be  a  mother  hen  with 
chickens,  in  a  pen  which  he  could  find  a  way 
into.  There  might  be  a  hen  sitting  on  her 
clutch  of  eggs  in  a  stolen  nest  under  the  barn. 
He  had  discovered  in  previous  seasons  that 
most  sitting  hens  had  their  nests  provided  for 
them  in  secure  places  which  he  could  in  no  way 
manage  to  come  at.  But  he  had  also  found 
that  sometimes  a  foolish  and  secretive  —  and 
very  young  —  hen  will  hide  her  nest  in  some 
such  out-of-the-way  place  as  under  the  barn 
floor,  where  the  troublesome  human  creatures 
who  preside  over  the  destinies  of  hens  cannot 
get  at  it.  Here  she  keeps  her  precious  eggs 
all  to  herself  till  she  has  enough  to  cover  com- 
fortably, and  then  she  proceeds  to  the  pleasant 
task  of  brooding  them,  and  has  things  all  her 
own  way  till  some  night-prowler  comes  along 


208         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

and  convicts  her,  finally  and  fatally,  of  her 
folly. 

A  full  moon,  large  and  ruddy  like  a  ripe 
pumpkin,  was  just  rising  behind  the  jagged 
black  tops  of  the  spruce  forest.  It  threw  long, 
fantastic,  confusing  shadows  across  the  dewy 
hillocks  of  the  pasture.  Hither  and  thither, 
in  and  out  and  across  the  barred  streaks  of 
light,  darted  the  wild  rabbits,  gambolling  as 
if  half  beside  themselves,  as  if  smitten  with  a 
midsummer  madness  by  the  capricious  magic 
of  the  night.  But  if  mad,  they  retained  enough 
sound  sense  to  keep  ever  at  a  prudent  distance 
from  the  leisurely  striped  wayfarer  who  ap- 
peared so  little  interested  in  their  sport. 
Though  they  were  bigger  than  he,  they  knew 
that,  if  they  should  venture  within  reach  of  his 
pounce,  his  indifference  would  vanish  and  his 
inexorable  fangs  would  be  in  their  throats. 

Knowing  his  utter  inability  to  compete  with 
the  speed  of  the  rabbits,  now  they  were  wide 
awake,  the  skunk  hardly  noticed  their  antics, 
but  kept  on  his  direct  path  toward  the  farm- 
yard. Presently,  however,  his  attention  was 
caught  by  the  rabbits  scattering  off  in  every 
direction.  On  the  instant  he  was  all  alert  for 
the  cause.  Mounting  a  hillock,  he  caught  sight 
of  a  biggish  shaggy-haired  dog  some  distance 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         209 

down  the  pasture.  The  dog  was  racing  this 
way  and  that  as  crazily,  it  seemed,  as  the  rab- 
bits, with  faint  little  yelps  of  excitement  and 
whines  of  disappointment.  He  was  chasing 
the  rabbits  with  all  his  energy ;  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  was  a  stranger,  a  new-comer  to 
the  wilderness  world,  for  he  seemed  to  think 
he  might  hope  to  catch  the  fleet-foot  creatures 
by  merely  running  after  them.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  had  just  arrived  that  same  day  at 
the  backwoods  farm  from  the  city  down  the 
river.  His  experience  had  been  confined  to 
streets  and  gardens  and  the  chasing  of  cats, 
and  he  was  daft  with  delight  over  the  spacious 
freedom  of  the  clearings.  The  skunk  eyed 
him  scornfully,  and  continued  his  journey  with 
the  unconcern  of  an  elephant. 

A  moment  later  the  dog  was  aware  of  a  little, 
insignificant  black-and-white  creature  coming 
slowlv  towards  him  as  if  unconscious  of  his 

wf 

presence.  Another  rabbit!  But  as  this  one 
did  not  seem  alarmed,  he  stopped  and  eyed  it 
with  surprise,  his  head  cocked  to  one  side  in 
inquiry.  The  skunk  half  turned  and  moved 
off  slowly,  deliberately,  at  right  angles  to  the 
path  he  had  been  following. 

With  a  yelp  of  delight  the  dog  dashed  at  this 
easy  victim,  which  seemed  so  stupid  that  it 


210        STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

made  no  effort  to  escape.  He  was  almost  upon 
it.  Another  leap  and  he  would  have  had  it  in 
his  jaws.  But  the  amazing  little  animal  turned 
its  back  on  him,  stuck  its  tail  straight  in  the 
air,  and  jerked  up  its  hindquarters  with  a  de- 
risive gesture.  In  that  instant  something  hot 
and  soft  struck  the  inexperienced  hunter  full 
in  the  face  —  something  soft,  indeed,  but  over- 
whelming, paralyzing.  It  stopped  him  dead  in 
his  tracks.  Suffocating,  intolerably  pungent, 
it  both  blinded  him  and  choked  him.  His  lungs 
refused  to  work,  shutting  up  spasmodically. 
Gasping  and  gagging,  he  grovelled  on  his  belly 
and  strove  frantically  to  paw  his  mouth  and 
nostrils  clear  of  the  dense,  viscous  fluid  which 
was  clogging  them.  Failing  in  this,  he  fell  to 
rooting  violently  in  the  short  grass,  biting  and 
tearing  at  it  and  rolling  in  it,  till  some  measure 
of  breath  and  eyesight  returned  to  him. 
Thereupon,  his  matted  head  all  stuck  with  grass 
and  moss  and  dirt,  he  set  off  racing  madly  for 
the  farm-house,  where  he  expected  to  get  relief 
from  the  strange  torment  which  afflicted  him. 
But  when  he  pawed  and  whined  at  the 
kitchen  door  for  admittance,  he  was  driven 
off  with  contumely  and  broomsticks.  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  slink  away  with 
his  shame  to  a  secluded  corner  between  the 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         211 

wagon-shed  and  the  pig-pen,  where  he  could 
soothe  his  burning  muzzle  in  the  cool  winds  and 
fresh  earth.  On  the  following  day  one  of  the 
farm  hands,  with  rude  hands  and  unsympa- 
thetic comment,  scrubbed  him  violently  with 
liquid  soap  and  then  clipped  close  his  splendid 
shaggy  coat.  But  it  was  a  week  before  he  was 
readmitted  to  the  comfortable  fellowship  of 
the  farmhouse  kitchen. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  with  a  glance  of  tri- 
umph in  his  bright  eyes,  the  skunk  had  watched 
the  paroxysms  of  his  discomfited  foe.  Then, 
dropping  the  tip  of  his  tail  into  its  customary 
disdainful  arch,  he  had  turned  back  towards 
his  burrow.  This  was  a  redoubtable  foe  whom 
he  had  just  put  to  rout,  and  he  had  expended 
most  of  his  armoury  upon  him.  He  had  no 
wish  to  risk  another  encounter  until  the  potent 
secretion  which  he  carried  in  a  sac  between  the 
powerful  muscles  of  his  thighs  should  have  had 
time  to  accumulate  again.  He  dropped,  for 
that  night,  all  notion  of  the  distinctly  adven- 
turous expedition  to  the  farmyard,  contenting 
himself  with  snapping  up  a  few  beetles  and 
crickets  as  he  went.  He  was  lucky  enough  to 
pounce  upon  an  indiscreet  field-mouse  just  as 
she  emerged  from  her  burrow,  and  then  a  few 
minutes'  digging  with  his  powerful  and  expert 


212         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

fore-paws  had  served  to  unearth  the  mouse's 
nest  with  her  half-dozen  tiny  blind  sucklings. 
So  he  went  home  well  satisfied  with  himself. 
Before  re-entering  he  again  made  a  careful 
toilet ;  and  as  the  opening  of  the  sac  from  which 
he  had  projected  the  potent  fluid  into  his 
enemy's  face  had  immediately  closed  up  tight 
and  fast,  he  carried  no  trace  of  the  virulent 
odour  with  him.  Indeed,  that  fluid  was  a 
thing  which  he  never  by  any  chance  allowed 
to  get  on  to  his  own  fur.  Always,  at  the 
moment  of  ejecting  it,  the  fur  on  his  thighs 
parted  and  lay  back  flat  to  either  side  of  the 
naked  vent  of  the  sac,  and  the  long  tail  cocked 
itself  up  rigidly,  well  out  of  the  way.  It  was 
a  stuff  he  kept  strictly  for  his  foes,  and  never 
allowed  to  offend  either  himself  or  his  friends. 

On  entering  his  burrow  he  found  there  his 
mate  and  all  the  youngsters,  curled  up  together 
in  the  sleep  of  good  digestion  and  easy  con- 
science. He  curled  himself  up  with  them,  that 
the  supply  of  his  high-explosive  might  accu- 
mulate during  another  forty  winks. 

About  an  hour  before  the  dawn  he  awoke 
again,  feeling  hungry.  The  rest  of  the  family 
were  still  sleeping,  having  gorged  themselves, 
as  he  might  have  done  had  it  not  been  for  that 
encounter  with  the  misguided  dog.  He  left 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         213 

them  whimpering  contentedly  in  their  cosy 
slumber,  and  crept  forth  into  the  dewy  chill 
alone,  his  heart  set  on  mice  and  such-like  warm- 
blooded game. 

The  moon  was  now  high  overhead,  sailing 
honey-coloured  through  a  faintly  violet  sky. 
The  rough  pasture,  with  its  stumps  and  hil- 
locks, was  touched  into  a  land  of  dream. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  an  old  bear,  who  was 
accustomed  to  foraging  in  the  valley  beyond 
the  cedar  swamp,  had  on  this  night  decided  to 
bring  her  cub  on  an  expedition  toward  the  more 
dangerous  neighbourhood  of  the  clearings. 
She  wanted  to  begin  his  education  in  all  the 
wariness  which  is  so  necessary  for  the  creatures 
of  the  wild  in  approaching  the  works  and 
haunts  of  man.  On  reaching  the  leafy  fringe 
of  bushes  which  fringed  the  rude  rail-fence 
dividing  the  forest  from  the  pasture,  she  cau- 
tiously poked  her  head  through  the  leafage, 
and  for  perhaps  a  minute,  motionless  as  a  stone, 
she  interrogated  the  bright  open  spaces  with 
eyes  and  ears  and  nostrils.  The  cub,  taking 
the  cue  from  his  mother,  stiffened  to  the  like 
movelessness  at  her  side,  his  bright  little  eyes 
full  of  interest  and  curiosity.  There  was  no 
sign  of  danger  in  the  pasture.  In  fact,  there 
were  the  merry  rabbits  hopping  about  in  the 


214         STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

moonlight  undisturbed.  This  was  a  sign  of 
security  quite  good  enough  for  the  wise  old 
bear.  With  crafty  and  experienced  paws  she 
forced  a  hole  in  the  fence  —  leaving  the  top 
rail,  above  the  binder,  in  its  place  —  and  led 
the  eager  cub  forth  into  the  moonlight. 

The  special  notion  of  the  bear  in  coming  to 
the  pasture  was  to  teach  her  cub  the  art  of 
finding,  unearthing,  and  catching  the  tooth- 
some wild  mice.  Keeping  along  near  the 
fence,  she  sniffed  the  tussocky,  uneven  grass 
with  practised  nose.  But  the  first  thing  she 
came  upon  was  a  bumble-bees'  nest.  This  was 
far  more  to  her  taste  than  any  mice.  She  gave 
a  low  call  to  the  cub ;  but  the  cub  was  preoccu- 
pied now,  sniffing  at  the  rabbit  tracks,  and  lift- 
ing himself  on  his  hindquarters  to  stare  long- 
ingly at  the  rabbits,  who  were  hopping  off  to 
discreeter  distance.  The  mother  did  not  insist 
on  his  coming  to  watch  her  tackle  the  bees'  nest. 
After  all,  he  was  perhaps  a  bit  young  to  face 
the  stings  of  the  angry  bees,  and  she  might  as 
well  have  the  little  hoard  of  honey  and  larvae 
and  bee-bread  for  herself.  The  cub  wandered 
off  a  little  way,  with  some  vague  notion  of 
chasing  the  elusive  rabbits. 

Just  then  through  the  edge  of  the  under- 
brush appeared  the  skunk,  stretching  himself 


STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED         215 

luxuriously  before  he  started  off  across  the  pas- 
ture. He  saw  the  bear,  but  he  knew  that 
sagacious  beast  would  pay  him  no  attention 
whatever.  He  trotted  out  into  the  moonlight 
and  pounced  upon  a  fat  black  cricket  as  an 
appetizer. 

The  cub  caught  sight  of  the  pretty  little 
striped  creature,  and  came  darting  clumsily 
and  gaily  to  the  attack.  He  would  show  his 
mother  that  he  could  do  some  hunting  on  his 
own  account.  The  striped  creature  turned  its 
back  on  him  and  moved  off  slowly.  The  cub 
was  delighted.  He  was  just  going  to  reach 
out  a  rude  little  paw  and  grab  the  easy  prize. 
Then  the  inevitable  happened.  The  pretty 
striped  creature  gave  its  stern  a  contemptuous 
jerk,  and  the  deluded  cub  fell  in  a  heap,  squeal- 
ing, gasping,  choking,  and  pawing  convulsively 
at  the  horrible  sticky  stuff  which  filled  his 
mouth  and  eyes. 

Just  before  the  catastrophe  occurred,  the  old 
bear  had  looked  up  from  her  business  with  the 
bees,  and  had  uttered  a  loud  woof  of  warning. 
But  too  late.  The  last  thing  in  the  world  she 
wanted  to  do  was  to  try  any  fooling  with  a 
skunk.  But  now  her  rage  at  the  suffering  and 
discomfiture  of  her  little  one  swept  away  all 
prudence.  With  a  grunt  of  fury  she  charged 


216        STRIPES  THE  UNCONCERNED 

at  the  offender.  One  glance  at  the  approach- 
ing vengeance  convinced  the  skunk  that  this 
time  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He  turned  and 
raced  for  the  underbrush  as  fast  as  his  little 
legs  would  carry  him.  But  that  was  not  fast 
enough.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  dart  under 
the  fence,  a  huge  black  paw,  shod  with  claws 
like  steel,  crashed  down  upon  him,  and  his 
leisurely  career  came  to  an  end. 

The  bear,  in  deep  disgust,  scraped  her  reek- 
ing paw  long  and  earnestly  in  the  fresh  earth 
beneath  the  grass,  then  turned  her  attention 
to  the  unhappy  cub.  She  relieved  her  feelings 
by  giving  him  a  sharp  cuff  which  sent  him 
sprawling  a  dozen  feet.  Then,  relenting,  she 
showed  him  how  to  clean  himself  by  rooting  in 
the  earth.  At  length,  when  he  could  see  and 
breathe  once  more  with  some  degree  of  com- 
fort, she  indignantly  led  him  away  back  into 
the  depths  of  the  consoling  forest. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


T 


HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of 
Macmillan  books  by  the  same  authors. 


The  Secret  Trails 


CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS'  NEW  BOOK 
Author  of  "  The  Backwoodsmen,"  "  Kings  in  Exile,"  etc. 

Decorated  cloth,  $1.50 

Dramatist  of  the  Forest,  this  is  the  title  which 
might  well  be  given  to  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts.  He  has 
made  the  woods  and  streams  and  the  creatures  thereof 
peculiarly  his  literary  property.  In  this  new  book,  as 
in  all  the  others  that  have  gone  before  it,  he  is  dealing 
with  animals  and  the  great  out  of  doors.  New  scenes, 
new  situations,  with  wild  beasts  and  birds  always  as 
the  principal  actors,  are  here  described  by  one  who 
knows  the  furry  folk,  who  loves  them  and  who  can 
write  of  them  with  sympathy  and  yet  without  mawkish- 
ness.  The  boar,  the  ox,  the  dog,  the  egret,  the  bear,  the 
eagle  and  the  rabbit — of  these  and  others  Mr.  Roberts 
writes  in  such  a  way  as  to  demonstrate  anew  the  truth 
of  the  Springfield  Republican's  comment  that,  "Among 
all  the  naturalists  of  our  day  who  have  developed  the 
romance  of  animal  life  from  the  animal's  point  of  view 
the  palm  must  be  given  to  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts." 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers    64-66  Fifth  Avenue    New  York 


BY  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

THE  BACKWOODSMEN 

Illustrated.    Cloth,    izmo,  $1.50 

"  'The  Backwoodsmen'  shows  that  the  writer  knows  the  back- 
woods as  the  sailor  knows  the  sea.  Indeed,  his  various 
studies  of  wild  life  in  general,  whether  cast  in  the  world  of 
short  sketch  or  story  or  full-length  narrative,  have  always 
secured  an  interested  public.  .  .  .  Mr.  Roberts  possesses  a 
keen  artistic  sense  which  is  especially  marked  when  he  is 
rounding  some  story  to  its  end.  There  is  never  a  word  too 
much,  and  he  invariably  stops  when  the  stop  should  be  made. 
.  .  .  Few  writers  exhibit  such  entire  sympathy  with  the  nature 
of  beasts  and  birds  as  he." — Boston  Herald. 

"When  placed  by  the  side  of  the  popular  novel,  the  strength 
of  these  stories  causes  them  to  stand  out  like  a  huge  primi- 
tive giant  by  the  side  of  a  simpering  society  miss,  and  while 
the  grace  and  beauty  of  the  girl  may  please  the  eye  for  a 
moment,  it  is  to  the  rugged  strength  of  the  primitive  man 
your  eyes  will  turn  to  glory  in  his  power  and  simplicity.  In 
simple,  forceful  style  Mr.  Roberts  takes  the  reader  with  him 
out  into  the  cold,  dark  woods,  through  blizzards,  stalking 
game,  encountering  all  the  dangers  of  the  backwoodsmen's 
life,  and  enjoying  the  close  contact  with  Nature  in  all  her 
moods.  His  descriptions  are  so  vivid  that  you  can  almost 
feel  the  tang  of  the  frosty  air,  the  biting  sting  of  the  snowy 
sleet  beating  on  your  face,  you  can  hear  the  crunch  of  the 
snow  beneath  your  feet,  and  when,  after  heartlessly  exposing 
you  to  the  elements,  he  lets  you  wander  into  camp  with  the 
characters  of  the  story,  you  stretch  out  and  bask  in  the  warmth 
and  cheer  of  the  fire." — Western  Review. 

KINGS  IN  EXILE 

Illustrated.    Cloth,    izmo,  $1.50 

"More  wonderful  animal  tales  such  as  only  Mr.  Roberts 
can  relate.  With  accurate  knowledge  of  the  exiled  beasts 
and  a  vivid  imagination,  the  author  writes  stories  that  are 
even  more  than  usually  interesting." — Book  News  Monthly. 

"It  is  surprising  how  much  of  the  wilderness  his  wistful  eye 
discovers  in  a  Central  Park  buffalo  yard.  For  this  gift  of 
vision  the  book  will  be  read,  a  vision  with  its  reminder  of  the 
scent  of  dark  forests  of  fir,  the  awful  and  majestic  loneliness 
of  sky-towering  peaks,  the  roar  of  the  breakers  and  salty 
smell  of  the  sea,  the  whispering  silences  of  the  forests.  We 
rise  from  its  pages  with  the  breath  of  the  open  spaces  in  our 
lungs." — Boston  Transcript. 

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Publishers      64-66  Fifth  Avenue      New  York 


Neighbors  Unknown 


By  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 
AUTHOR  OF  "KINGS  IN  EXILE,"  "HOOF  AND  CLAW,"  ETC. 

Decorated  cloth,  illustrated,  izmo,  $1.50 
"Mr.    Roberts    knows    his    animals    intimately   and   writes 
about  them  with  understanding  and  reality." — The  Continent. 
"Whether  viewed  as  stories,  as  natural  history,  or  as  litera- 
ture, young  and  old  should  lose  no  time  in  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  'Neighbors  Unknown.' " — N.  Y.  Times. 

"Few  stories  about  animals  have  as  strong  a  power  to  inter- 
est and  entertain  or  carry  as  deep  a  conviction  of  their  truth 
and  reasonableness  as  those  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  which 
comprise  the  volume  'Neighbors  Unknown.' " — Chicago  Trib- 
une. 

"What  observation,  what  power  of  description  is  displayed 
in  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts's  latest  volume  of  stories!" — 
Bellman. 

Hoof  and  Claw 

BY  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

AUTHOR  OF  "KINGS  IN  EXILE,"  "NEIGHBORS  UNKNOWN,"  ETC. 
With  illustrations  by  PAUL  BRANSOM 

///.,  decorated  cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50 

"Whoever  loves  the  wilderness  and  its  furred  and  feathered 
inhabitants  is  always  glad  to  know  of  a  new  book  by  Charles 
G.  D.  Roberts,  whose  knowledge  and  sympathy  with  wild 
things  is  profound,  but  who  never  falls  into  that  danger  of 
humanizing  his  characters." — Springfield  Republican. 

"A  great  deal  of  keen  observation  has  evidently  gone  into 
the  making  of  these  tales  .  .  .  city  dwellers  owe  to  this  sort 
of  book  a  debt  which  they  probably  will  never  sufficiently 
pay,  and  that  is  to  read  them." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-68  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


BY  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 
AUTHOR  OP  "KINGS  IN  EXILE,"  "THE  BACKWOODSMEN,"  ETC. 

Children  of  The  Wild 

With  illustrations,  doth,  izmo,  $1.35  net;  postpaid,  $1.47 

As  might  be  inferred  from  the  title  of  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts' 
new  book,  "Children  of  the  Wild,"  the  reader  is  brought  very  close 
to  nature.  <Mr.  Roberts  has  written  many  stories  about  the  wild,  all 
of  which  have  the  atmosphere  which  few  writers  are  able  to  breathe 
into  their  books — the  atmosphere  of  outdoor  life  told  with  the  sure 
touch  of  a  recognized  authority.  Here  he  writes  for  boys  particu- 
larly, still  of  the  creatures  of  the  forests  and  streams,  but  with  a  boy 
as  the  central  human  figure.  Babe  and  his  Uncle  Andy  and  Bill, 
the  guide,  are  camping  in  the  wilderness.  What  they  see  and  hear 
there  suggest  stories  about  young  animals,  the  "children  of  the  wild." 
These  tales  are  recounted  by  Uncle  Andy.  In  them  Mr.  Roberts 
shows  that  he  knows  his  fellowmen  fully  as  well  as  he  knows  the  lore 
of  the  woods  and  the  haunts  and  habits  of  the  animals  of  the  forest. 
Into  his  stories  creep  snatches  of  humor,  glimpses  of  tragedy,  and 
the  poignant  touch  of  pathos,  all  of  which  make  his  work  natural. 
The  present  work  should  prove  a  most  acceptable  remembrance  to 
every  boy  who  cares,  and  what  boy  does  not,  for  a  hearty  book  of 
outdoor  life. 


The  Feet  of  the  Furtive 

Decorated  cloth,  izmo,  $1.35  net;  postpaid,  $1.50 
Illustrated  by  PAUL  BRANSOM 

It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  there  is  a  more  popular  animal  writer 
to-day  than  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  whose  stories  of  forests  and 
streams  are  read  with  pleasure  by  young  and  old  alike.  In  his 
present  book  are  tales  of  the  bear,  the  bat,  the  seal,  the  moose,  rabbit 
and  other  animals  written  in  his  usual  vivid  style. 

"A  great  book  for  boys  of  all  ages,  and  one  that  could  have  been 
written  only  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts." — Boston  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers        64-66  Fifth  Avenue        New  York 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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